A Flip of the Coin
by dettiot
Summary: What made Charles Carmichael agree to become Chuck Bartowski? Well, to start, it wasn't as much of a change as you'd think. A companion to the early chapters of Two Sides of the Same Coin from Carmichael's perspective.
1. Chapter 1

**A Flip of the Coin 1/4**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: M for language, sex and violence

**Summary**: What made Charles Carmichael agree to become Chuck Bartowski? Well, to start, it wasn't as much of a change as you'd think. A companion to the early chapters of **Two Sides of the Same Coin** from Carmichael's perspective.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note**: A lot of people said they really liked Carmichael in the first chapter of **Two Sides of the Same Coin** and it made me realize that we don't get to spend a lot of time with him. So I got inspired to explore his mindset and how he came to the Intersect Project. I hope you enjoy this! Many thanks to Steampunk . Chuckster for all her help with this fic.

This story begins about a month before Carmichael's mission with Sarah in the Dominican Republic.

XXX

The moment he stepped into CIA headquarters, Charles Carmichael was braced for what was about to happen. What was that line about how you shouldn't do something great if you couldn't handle the celebration?

He really needed to remember that.

As he walked through security, a buzz started among the other agents in the area. Charles tried not to notice it. Tried not to notice the eyes on him, the whispers of _Charles Carmichael_ that started to fill the halls. And then somebody started clapping and it was all over.

With an inner sigh, Charles pasted on a smile and nodded to the crowd. He accepted the handshakes and the hearty pats on the back. Listened to the compliments and praise. Let people admire him, stand in awe of his work.

Yet it all felt so . . . so hollow.

Shaking his head, Charles gently cut off the agent who was gushing over one of his old missions. It must not have been as gentle as he intended, though-the agent looked crestfallen and embarrassed, letting Charles go without another word.

Why did it-the praise, even the accomplishment of completing another mission successfully-feel empty? Charles considered that as he headed to Langston Graham's office. He'd been a field agent for five years and a member of the CIA for eight. Recruited during his sophomore year at Harvard, from the start Charles had been someone who attracted notice. Being seen as a tactical and strategic genius would do that, he mused. Having bigwigs who knew his name as soon as he arrived at the Farm, being sent to Agency functions while still in training, all the opportunities and advantages he had received-it had been clear pretty early on that he wasn't considered a normal recruit.

But the attention had only gotten more intense once he was in the field. Once he began showing he was more than just book smart. It hadn't been easy, Charles acknowledged. There had been a lot of hard work: physically, mentally, emotionally, he had stretched himself to his very limits. Thanks to his exertion and a little luck, though, he had risen through the ranks to become one of the most successful agents in the CIA's history. He had his pick of assignments, a certain degree of power, and a near-constant stream of requests for his assistance.

And none of it mattered.

Stabbing the button for the elevator that would take him to the floor with Graham's office, Charles told himself he was being as melodramatic as his teenaged self. Certainly a high case closure rate mattered: it meant he was doing his job of keeping the country safe. Thwarting terrorist plots and ending revolutions wasn't something that anyone could do, and he happened to be pretty damn good at it.

It was the politics, the expectations, that didn't matter. He could care less that Graham and his bosses wanted him to move out of the field and into administration; that wasn't for him. Thanks to his success, he could ignore most of the political wheeling and dealing that went on among his fellow agents. And honestly, he preferred it that way. Preferred working on his own mostly, preferred not having a partner and instead working with various agents on a case-by-case basis.

So what was the problem? When did the applause start to become an inconvenience-a drawback?

Charles stepped into the elevator and selected the button for the fourth floor. He leaned against the side of the car, not missing how three different agents made to step onto the elevator, saw him, and immediately turned away.

Once the doors shut, the mirrored panels threw his reflection back to him. His appearance wasn't out of the ordinary: tailored suit in a deep charcoal gray, a pale gray shirt and a tie with blue and silver swirls. His wingtips were slightly scuffed, but all in all, he looked like your average CIA agent. Or at least, that's what he tried to achieve.

For years, he had been trying to fit in. No, not fit in, not exactly . . . just not attract too much attention to himself. As a spy, his very nature was to blend in. To become part of his surroundings. When he was out in the field, he could do that. Whether it was posing as a Russian arms dealer, performing surveillance while melting into a crowd in Marrakech, or seducing an Italian countess, Charles Carmichael could become whatever was required. It was when he had to be himself that the problems began.

He frowned a little and pushed aside such thoughts as the elevator doors opened. Graham had requested his presence the next time he was at headquarters and Charles wasn't quite sure why. So he spent the next five minutes determining a list of possible reasons for this meeting and developing a strategy for reacting to each of those possibilities.

"Ahh, Agent Carmichael. Have a seat," Langston Graham said, rising from his desk chair as Charles stepped into his office.

"Thank you, Director," Charles said, nodding to Graham as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down in the chair across from him. "It's good to see you."

"You're not often in the vicinity of Washington, so I hope this meeting isn't inconvenient," Graham said, settling back into his chair.

It would seem that whatever Graham wanted to talk about, it was something he thought would annoy Charles: thus the kid-glove treatment. Charles tilted his head to the side. "Not at all. I like to come through every three or four months, just to make sure I remember where Headquarters is."

Graham let out a dark huff of laughter, confirming Charles's suspicion of what was to come. Because Graham wasn't one to laugh at Charles's jokes unless he wanted something.

"Perhaps you need to reconsider being a field agent, if you're in danger of forgetting where Headquarters is," Graham said smoothly. "I have several teams and task forces that would love to have Charles Carmichael as their leader."

And there it was, Charles thought with an inner sigh. It had been about six months since Graham had tried once again to get him to move up the ladder, so he was right on schedule with this request. But that wasn't what Charles wanted.

Although . . . maybe he should consider it. Perhaps that was what he needed to find a new kind of meaning with his job: find a new challenge. And leading a team, being the one to plan the operations from the start and utilize the team's resources wouldn't be so different from what he already did on missions. Yet being in charge officially, he suspected, would be very different. So it might be a challenge.

But having people depend on him like that, looking to him for guidance and support-that didn't sound like the kind of work he wanted to do. He could admit that his current system suited him. If he worked well with an agent, it made the mission go smoothly. If things didn't click, at least he was stuck with the other agent for just one assignment.

So Charles looked at Graham and shook his head. "I'm content with field work, Director. Thank you for the opportunity, of course."

Graham leaned back in his chair. "You have to understand our perspective, Agent Carmichael. We see great things in you. So much potential. But we also see an agent not living up to his potential."

"I appreciate that perspective-but I don't agree with it," Charles said calmly. "I won't come out of the field unless I find a team or task force where my skills are truly needed."

The director looked annoyed by that answer, but Charles just looked at him with a nonchalant expression and Graham gave up. "Very well, Carmichael. I don't suppose you'd throw me a bone and let me suggest a few agents that you could work with on upcoming assignments?"

"Of course I'm willing to listen to your suggestions," Charles said, trying to keep his graciousness from coming across as smug. "You know more about the field operatives available than I ever could."

If Graham had been anyone other than the deputy director of the CIA, Charles was pretty sure he'd be rolling his eyes right now. He slid a folder across his desk to Charles. "You'll find some names and service records inside. If anyone appeals to you, just contact Operational Support."

Charles murmured a soft noise of acknowledgement as he ran his eyes over the list. He stopped when he saw the name at the bottom: Agent Sarah Walker.

The way Graham kept trying to do the agency version of matchmaker was moving past humorous to annoying. Because this wasn't the first time he had attempted to get Charles to work with his latest pet agent.

Not that there was anything wrong with Graham identifying agents that were worthy of his patronage and then giving them all the benefits of such patronage. Charles himself had been the recipient of those benefits himself when he was starting in the CIA. But that didn't mean he wanted to work with Walker.

She was good, he admitted. Her reputation was that she got the job done, often flying by the seat of her pants. She was a loose cannon and completely loyal to Graham. That wasn't a combination that appealed to him.

Yet it didn't mean he wasn't curious about her. Because she was also reputed to be pretty damn hot, and that was saying something within the ranks of attractive people that made up the National Clandestine Service. And sometimes, a mission called for a female agent who could make men forget their name. Given that Walker could do that-all while she was planning where to slip a knife into said man-made her an interesting option.

"I thought Walker was partnered with Larkin," he said, looking at Graham.

"Larkin's in deep cover and Walker's at loose ends."

"Hmmm," Charles said, mulling over that interesting piece of intel. He closed the folder and stood up. "I don't think we had anything else to discuss?"

Graham shook his head and stayed seated. "That's all, Agent Carmichael."

Charles gave Graham a nod and turned, walking out of the office. He slid the folder of potential mission partners into his laptop bag and headed towards the second-floor visiting agents bullpen: an area of cubicles for anyone who was in town and needed workspace. He'd hunker down with some files and his laptop and figure out what he was going to do next. Once he knew his next mission, he could figure out what operatives would suit his needs.

It was simple and cut-and-dried, really. At least it was to him. Most of his work came pretty easily to him now. Hopefully, he wouldn't get distracted by wondering why he was tired of being good at his job.

XXX

His eyes moving around quickly, Charles looked for someplace that would give him cover. But as a six-foot-four Caucasian in Tokyo, he was finding that was a difficult search. Someplace crowded, that was what he needed. And in the Ginza, an upscale shopping area, it was just a matter of picking any of the luxury stores that lined its streets.

The sound of muffled shouts behind him made his decision. He was just outside the Sony Building, and there was definitely a crowd inside. So Charles casually slipped into the showroom for the electronics giant.

Inside the store, there was a loud buzz of conversations punctuated by beeps, whistles and bells. Everywhere he looked, people were surrounding display models, trying out new electronics. Large video screens took up the walls, advertising products and displaying the progress of gamers using the store's gaming consoles.

Charles felt his eyes widen slightly as he watched the video games. They had really come a long way from his old NES. Moving around the store, he edged over towards the area featuring the PlayStation 3.

It had been a long time since he had done any gaming-not since his early teens. The fact that there was a new PlayStation had completely slipped his notice, thanks to the whole being-a-spy thing. And since he needed to stay here for a while, why not pass the time getting familiar with the newest flagship console?

Stopping at a touch screen kiosk, he tapped on the screen to bring up the German display. He didn't want to pick English and give himself away, and he knew German well enough to get by.

He slowly read through the marketing materials on the new system, at first making sure to glance around his surroundings enough to ensure he hadn't been spotted. But after a few minutes, he got sucked into all the technical specifications, feeling intrigued. To think, the NES that seemed top-of-the-line when he was a kid was exponentially outstripped by this new console in so many ways. Reading over all this, it made him feel like ten-year-old Chuck Bartowski, talking with his best friend about video games and cheat codes. Feeling that same surge of excitement and limitless possibilities.

It had been a long time since he had felt that. And he should really stop. Get his focus back on the mission, finish the job and get out of Japan. His childhood habits didn't relate to this job-they weren't necessary and he didn't have time for a stroll down memory lane.

But instead, he walked to a newly-vacated display unit and picked up the controller. It was so large and chunky compared to the tiny NES unit-and more complicated. More buttons, more triggers, more . . . everything.

The screen in front of him blinked with the message _START NEW GAME?_ At least that was familiar.

Gazing at the screen, Charles suddenly missed Morgan. Which was pretty ridiculous, since it had been years since he had done more than email his old friend. And the emails were few and far between, he admitted. But standing here, holding a game controller and getting ready to play a video game, he wished he had kept in better contact with Morgan.

He wished a lot of things, actually.

If he hadn't gone to boarding school at thirteen-if he had stayed in California, maybe his dad wouldn't have left. He wouldn't have become Charles Carmichael-he would have stayed Chuck Bartowski. What sort of person would he have become, what sort of life would he have if he hadn't left?

Would he have been happier?

And just why was he wondering that? Charles frowned. He was . . . well, no, he wasn't happy now. There were too many nagging questions and minor annoyances tugging at him to call himself happy. But he was certainly content. He was doing good work, serving his country and keeping the world safe. He got to travel and see all kinds of exotic destinations. He had plenty of money, good health, and a challenging career. What more could he want?

_Friends. Family. Love. _

His frown deepened. That-that was . . .

Charles put down the controller and stepped away from the console. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be thinking about playing games when there was still work to be done. Video games were something that he used to do-they wouldn't fill the hole inside him, wouldn't fix what was broken in his life.

Not that his life was that broken. No more than any other spy's. He was fine. Just fine. There was nothing wrong with him.

Straightening up to his full height, Charles headed for the door of the store. When he stepped out onto the street, he walked with confidence, almost with swagger. The bad guys were looking for him? Let them find him, then. Because if they did, he would take care of them. There was a tranq gun shoved in the back of his trousers and he was an expert in several martial arts disciplines. He could take them.

He was Charles Carmichael. He wasn't some nerd who couldn't throw a punch. He was an agent of the CIA and a badass.

And if he kept reminding himself of that, he'd be able to push aside this self-doubt. And this strange, half-baked longing for something else.

XXX

Leaning his head back against the seat of the jet, Charles admitted to himself that not following his own rules was a stupid idea.

About two years ago, after several missions that hadn't gone according to his plans, he had performed a thorough analysis of each mission to see what the failure point was. Although there were always multiple reasons why an operation went off the rails, he was able to link most of the problems to a lack of connection between himself and the agent he worked with on those missions.

He had high standards, he knew. Possibly too high. But he wasn't going to suffer fools gladly and he wasn't about to commit to a potential partner without putting them through their paces first. That meant working single missions together and then reassessing. But the problem was, how to quickly craft that connection with an agent, a connection that would let them get through their shared mission?

For Charles Carmichael, getting a drink first before the assignment began was the way he did just that. It let him see the other agent in a more relaxed setting, let him get a feel for their quirks. It was unorthodox but it worked.

The mission in Japan, there hadn't been time to get a drink with Agent Shaw first. There was no trust, no understanding. It was little wonder that the operation blew up in their faces and they had barely gotten out of the country alive and with the intelligence they were after.

It would go down as a win, but not to Charles. He had higher standards. So he resolved that on his next mission, if it was time-sensitive, he'd just do it alone rather than go into the field with someone he wasn't sure of.

Hopefully, though, that wouldn't be necessary. Pulling his computer bag out, he extracted his laptop and settled in to do some work, thankful that private jets and the CIA's budget and research knowledge allowed for Internet access. He plugged in and began scrolling through intelligence reports.

Nothing seemed all that interesting. He bypassed the Eastern European and Russia jobs-he still had a price on his head from his incursion against Alexei Volkoff. There was always work in Afghanistan and Pakistan, but given the vast amount of resources the CIA was throwing there, he felt like that part of the world was covered. For his money, it was the small, seemingly inconsequential jobs that ended up being the real game-changers.

Charles rolled his eyes a little at the cliches and kept looking. After an hour, though, he was rewarded: chatter out of the Dominican Republic about President Fernandez's recent speeches, linking problems within the country to Trujillo-era terrorists located in the United States. It was the kind of nonsense an elected leader spouted when things weren't going well, but Charles was intrigued by the connection. He could almost feel the neurons in his brain firing as he began digging into the intelligence and doing his own research.

By the time the jet had landed in Washington, he had a working theory and enough information to support an operation. Now the only question was who he should work with. He doubted the list Graham gave him last week was still accurate-at least, not in full-so once he arrived at headquarters, he went straight to the field agent scheduling office.

After a few minutes of searching, the best option looked to be Sarah Walker. Charles pursed his lips and thought that over as he took the stairs to Graham's office, needing the extra time to think more than the convenience of the elevator.

There was no good reason for him to hold out. Walker was a pretty good agent and just because Graham wanted them to work together didn't change that fact. And there was enough time before the mission started for them to have a drink in the next day or so. Yet something about giving in to Graham put his teeth on edge.

Or maybe it was just the rumors about Walker. About how she tended to make a play for her partner. Most gossip said that she and Larkin had a fairly hot-and-heavy partnership-one that had ended abruptly on both personal and professional levels when he went into deep cover.

Scoffing, Charles brushed that aside. He knew how much of an old-boys network the CIA was; just because he wasn't a woman didn't mean he ignored that fact. Women were held to a different and unfair standard, one that he didn't agree with. Regardless of the rumors about the various agents he worked with, he tried to give everyone a fair shake. That was part of the reason for pre-mission drinks.

So he'd let Walker prove herself to him without judging her first. It'd be interesting to see for himself what it was about her that made Graham her biggest cheerleader. And for this mission in the Dominican, she was a damn good fit: skilled, experienced in presidential security, not rumored to do anything that he found annoying.

And his decision to work with Walker would probably make Graham's day, he thought to himself with a grin as he swept into the deputy director's office.

XXX

When he stepped into the H Street Country Club, a quick scan of the bar confirmed his belief that Walker wasn't already here. It was only 7:45 and parking was notoriously bad around here. He didn't mind waiting for her-he preferred being the first one here.

Nabbing a stool that was halfway down the long bar, Charles slid his jacket off and draped it over the stool's back. "Dos Equis, please," he said to the bartender as he settled into his seat. Within a few moments, he had a cold beer in his hand and was ready to meet Sarah Walker. But for a few moments, he let himself relax a little. Rolling up his shirt sleeves, he rested his forearms on the edge of the bar and mulled the thought of seeing his sister.

Over the last year, he had been making more of an effort to reach out to Ellie. Certainly they had stayed close after he left for boarding school, but phone calls and emails could only go so far. While he was in school, there hadn't been the money to allow many visits; by junior year, he was usually lining up jobs and friends to stay with during the summer, so he didn't come home to California and Ellie couldn't come East. The same pattern continued when he started at Harvard. So although Ellie had been there when he graduated high school and college, and he'd done the same for her college and med school graduations, their visits had always been short and squeezed in.

But everything had changed when he had nearly missed her wedding two months ago.

A mission, one that he thought would wrap up with plenty of time to spare, had instead become one of those assignments that seemed to never end. He hadn't been able to get things wrapped up enough to allow him to leave for California until the morning of the wedding. It had taken a lot of pulled strings to allow him to be in the church in time for the ceremony. At the time, he thought he'd just stay for the reception and then head off to another assignment. But Ellie had different ideas.

"Do you realize we haven't spent more than twelve hours together since you were eighteen?" Ellie had asked, pinning him with her hazel eyes. "I know how busy your job keeps you, but . . . but I miss you."

"Aren't you afraid I'll just sit around and play video games all the time?" he said, trying to make a joke out of it.

Ellie, who had always been smarter than him, had tilted her head to one side and looked at him for a long moment. "That's not who you are anymore, but if that's who you want to be, I wouldn't mind. Just so I could have my little brother around for more than a day."

Charles had felt his stomach sink. Why had he said that? Why had he let slip the strange, unsettled feelings that were bothering him? Especially around his sister-Ellie was always like a bloodhound when she suspected something was wrong. But to his surprise, Ellie had just given him a small, slightly sad smile and kissed his cheek. "Think about it, Charles. You're always welcome, even if I'm now Mrs. Woodcomb."

The timing hadn't been right then. But maybe after this mission to the Dominican Republic, he could put in for some time off. He'd banked plenty of leave over the years and he knew Ellie meant what she said. The more he thought about the idea, the more appealing it seemed. Charles ran a hand through his hair and considered the real heart of the matter: if he didn't put in for the time now, he probably wouldn't do it.

Pulling out his phone, Charles called the scheduling office and let them know that after this mission he was taking a week off. As he finished the call, he noticed it was eight o'clock. He put away his phone and glanced towards the door before taking a small sip of his beer. Walker should be here any second now.

The faint clump of boot heels made him turn his head, his eyes locking on the owner of the boots: a woman with the unmistakable air of being a spy. A woman who also matched the descriptions he'd heard of Sarah Walker: beautiful, stunning, gorgeous, with eyes that didn't give away anything.

She was all that and more. And maybe those baby blues were mysterious to other people, but there was something about her eyes that drew him in . . . and made him feel like he knew her.

He couldn't help a small grin. "Walker, I presume?"

There was a small flutter in her throat. Like she swallowed down whatever she was going to say and instead went with, "That's me. And you're Carmichael."

As she sat next to him, Charles felt like his whole body was on high alert. It was unnerving, exciting, and interesting. He couldn't remember ever feeling like this.

Sarah Walker was a very composed woman. Some would see it as reserve, even coldness, but Charles didn't. No, underneath the surface, she had a strong heart. She cared. At least, that was his read on her. Passion wasn't something he had ever heard talked about when it came to her, and it made him wonder just how blind his fellow agents were.

It also made him want to see how she reacted if her composure was challenged. So while she was looking over the drink choices, he leaned in to read the menu over her shoulder. He could tell she was slightly annoyed at his forwardness. But he was thrown by his own reaction. Because . . . damn.

Charles moved back from her and wrapped his fingers around his beer. So that experiment had backfired, because that high alert feeling had changed into an electric tingle, one that made his skin heat up and his stomach tighten. He had never been affected so strongly by anyone, out of the dozens of beautiful women he had encountered over the years.

Perhaps it had just been too long since he'd been on a date or any kind of social encounter with a woman. Not that this was a date-it was work. And he needed to remember that.

But it was tough. Because he was very quickly discovering that Sarah Walker had a dry wit and a no-nonsense attitude that he liked. She didn't back down from an argument but kept it civil. And when they talked about the mission, her insights lined up with his.

All in all, this mission was looking more interesting by the minute. He actually felt his spirits drop when she finished her drink and reached for her purse.

"Leaving, huh? No interest in dinner?"

For a split-second, he could see her reconsider. And he found himself hoping that she would stay and have dinner with him. But then she shook her head and gave him a small smile. "I still have a few things to wrap up before we leave. Another time, maybe."

Her half-hearted promise made him feel like a teenager. Like the bumbling, shy nerd he had been when he first started noticing girls. And that was ridiculous. He had moved on from being Chuck years ago. Just because he felt like something was missing in his life didn't mean that he should pin any or all his hopes on Sarah Walker. A woman he would be working with and who didn't deserve to have any doubts about just why she was on this mission with him. She was there because she was good. Not because she was beautiful.

"Your loss," he said, trying to sound unaffected and casual. "There's an indoor mini golf course upstairs, and I'm lousy at it. You could have won easily."

From the way she tensed up a little, and the cool tone to her voice when she said, "Tempting," Charles knew his answer had come across as more arrogant than breezy. It made him want to kick himself. To find some way to not seem like an asshole. So when she reached for her wallet, he acted on instinct.

"I've got this," he said, his hand covering hers. He ruthlessly ignored the spark that went through him at the touch of her hand and pulled his fingers away, rising to his feet and gesturing to the bartender. "I'll see you tomorrow, Walker."

He didn't know if his offer to pay had done enough to set things right between them. He hoped it had, especially when he saw her have to steady herself a little when she stood up. Could she have been as affected as he was?

Her wisecrack about enjoying the mini golf made him laugh. Something that not many people could do. So he gave her a small salute as he bid her goodbye. The smile she flashed before she walked away made him realize that he was in trouble. Because her smile, even when it was small and quick, made him feel warm all over.

Picking up his beer, he threw back the last of it, making a face at the flat, bitter taste. "Shit," he muttered.

But he wasn't really talking about his beer.

XXX

"Carmichael! Charles, stop!"

The sound of her voice finally penetrated the sleepy haze he was in, which made him realize what he was doing. Walker was pinned underneath him on the bed, his hips and legs holding her down while his hands gripped her wrists. Her eyes were wide, but not with fear-with confusion.

"Oh, shit." As fast as he could, he rolled off her and moved to the edge of the bed, letting his head hang as he ran his hands through his hair.

He had done it again. Damn it, he should have known better than to relax around her enough to fall asleep first.

It began on his third mission after he finished training at the Farm. He'd always been a sound sleeper and prone to talking in his sleep-and occasionally even somnambulism. On that mission, his fellow agent gave him a bad vibe. He had a personal cell phone that he never failed to answer, he was evasive with Charles, and he would disappear for short periods of time. When the mission went south, Charles couldn't help wondering if this guy had tipped off the terrorists. But without any real evidence, there was nothing he could do or say.

But that night, in the hotel room they shared, Charles had been the first to fall asleep, and then had proceeded to hold a knife against the suspected traitor's throat, without waking up until the agent had punched him in the face.

Only the fact that he was right-the guy was a traitor-allowed Charles to keep his sleepwalking quiet. He had done some research and discovered various methods that would help him cope with his unconscious behavior. He hadn't had an episode in years.

But Walker-Sarah-she shook him up. In ways he hadn't experienced ever before. Something about her made him uncertain. Tested him. Challenged him in ways that went beyond the professional.

And then there was the chemistry.

Charles hunched his shoulders a bit more. Just because she made him hot, turned him on like no other woman ever had, it was no excuse for how he had acted around her. For God's sake, he was an adult, not some teenage nerd. He could control himself.

_Like you did earlier?_

It was all he could do not to groan at the memory of yanking her back into that darkened room inside the presidential mansion, pressing her against the door in order to keep her safe. Because the danger, the spark of their argument about tactics, and how her curves felt even better than he had imagined, it all combined to make his body react.

She had known exactly how affected he was. The way she had rolled her hips against his was more crushing than getting slapped in the face. Because her face had been completely blank, her eyes for once unreadable, as she moved against him.

He had no clue what she thought of him. But he knew he had to get his shit together. And having his sleepwalking problem choose now to re-emerge was the last thing he needed.

There was a soft cough from next to him and he heard Sarah shift on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly as she moved to sit on the edge near him. "Okay there?" she asked softly, her voice showing neither censure nor sympathy.

His jaw tensed a little, the embarrassment making him avoid her eyes. "Yeah. Sorry."

That was a crappy apology. She deserved better and he had already opened his mouth to try again when she took the blame. And that made him lift his head and give her the apology she deserved.

As he spoke, as he looked at her, he could feel the awkwardness of the situation start to ebb. That was good. Because if nothing else, he was starting to think that Sarah Walker would make a hell of a partner. She was even better than Graham had said she was. Sure, she worked on instinct and went off half-cocked at times, but he thought she would balance him out and vice versa.

So to keep this somewhat professional, he offered to sleep on the floor. And her response, so full of disbelief and amusement, turned the tables on the conversation. Because she flushed as soon as she realized what she said, and seeing the pink spread across her cheeks . . . it was endearing. And it made him want to flirt with her.

And she flirted back. She nudged him with her elbow, she looked at his lips. He could feel the tension growing inside him, the tension that hadn't ever really gone away since that moment in the darkened room, and he knew that there was only one way for that tension to be released.

He wanted her. Badly. Enough to throw out all the rules about agent relationships and any future working partnership they could have, if only he could find out what it would be like if he pressed up against her again.

The words he was saying, about being stuck, they didn't even make all that much sense. He'd never been able to come up with the charming phrases that other men seemed to when they were flirting. He just had to hope that she was getting the message. Because without a clear sign from her . . . he wouldn't make a move.

When she lifted her face towards his, her lips hovering an inch away and her eyes locked on his, Charles wasn't sure if that was enough of a sign. But it had to be, because he needed to kiss her.

The moment their lips came into contact, Charles nearly sighed. Because her mouth was warm and soft, because she used just the right amount of pressure, because there was something indescribable about how she made him feel. He rested a hand on her back as he took his time kissing her.

Whatever it was that she brought out in him, he liked it. He wanted more. And he wanted to give her more. This was going to be the best night of her life, he hoped. Because it was already looking like the best of his.

So he nuzzled her neck and pushed her down on the bed, running his hands over her frankly intoxicating body as he prepared to make the beginning of this night about her pleasure.

Not in order to coerce her into a blow job or anything tawdry like that. Not because he was apologizing for what had happened earlier. No, he began kissing his way up her thigh towards her center because he wanted to taste her.

And when his mouth covered her, Charles Carmichael felt like his world began to make sense again.

XXX

Was it normal, after the best sex of your life, to feel regret?

Charles didn't know. Because he hadn't often been in this position: lying naked next to a near-complete stranger who still felt more familiar and more important than nearly everyone else in his life.

Sarah was sleeping on her stomach, her arms underneath her pillow and her back to him. If he didn't know better, he'd suspect she had a knife under that pillow. But he knew she didn't. He knew she had fallen asleep beside him, her back turned towards him in an unconscious show of trust.

And that was the last thing he deserved.

What the hell was he thinking? He had never done this before: sleep with an agent at the end of a mission. He had better control than that, he had other ways of releasing adrenaline. Ways that didn't involve orally pleasuring a woman he would love to work with again.

_Good luck getting either of those things._

Rubbing a hand over his face, Charles told himself to calm down. But it was just as ineffective as when you told someone else to calm down. Because his mind was racing and he felt like he was going crazy.

Working with Sarah again seemed unlikely. Because he knew he wouldn't be able to not touch her, to not want her. Not when a quick glance at her now made him want to wake her up and-

It would be too dangerous. If he couldn't control himself around her, it would interfere with any mission they were on, complicate situations that needed to be straightforward. There was a reason that officially the CIA was against interagency relationships. They might turn a blind eye towards most couplings that occurred, but when they got in the way of an assignment the couple in question would be severely disciplined.

With the brunt of the punishment falling on one of the agents-typically the female one, in the heterosexual relationships.

That was the last thing Charles wanted.

But could he have what he really wanted? A way of seeing Sarah again? Like . . . dating?

He rubbed a hand over his face and got out of bed, pulling on his wrinkled clothes. No. That ship had sailed. Jumping the gun and sleeping with her tonight was the last way to start a relationship. He hadn't dated much, but he knew that much. Just imagining the awkward attempts at conversation, with their memories of what they had already shared together, was enough to make him shudder.

No . . . it was more logical to just make this a one-time interaction. Yes, they had worked well together. Yes, they had spent the night together. But neither of those facts meant that either situation should continue.

Gathering his things, Charles saw that he had a text message. Scrolling through it, he felt an odd sense of relief. Because Graham wanted him on the first flight to New York, to present the intel they had recovered to the UN.

And now he had the perfect reason to leave now. To keep the logic and reason behind his decision from being weakened by emotion. He would just leave now and avoid any unpleasantness in the morning.

It only took a few moments to be ready. He glanced at his watch and nodded. The first flight to New York would be leaving in two hours-plenty of time.

Yet when he reached out to open the door, he paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. Should he just leave like this? Without telling Sar-Walker what had happened?

There wasn't much time to spare. Charles fumbled around and found a pad of paper in his bag. Hunting for a pen seemed to take much longer than it should, but finally he had something to write with. Which left him staring at the blank page, wondering what to say.

Should he reassure her that it was just work? Say something about enjoying having worked with her? No, that would be bad-there was too much room for innuendo and assumptions with that.

With a small grimace, he scribbled her name and then explained that he was going to New York on Graham's orders. He stared at the note, hating how cold and formal it was. So even though it wasn't what he wanted to say, because it was even more formal and didn't come close to how he really felt about this mission, he wrote that it was good to work with her before signing his name.

Honestly, she would probably wake up and feel the same kind of relief that he did. Feel grateful that he wasn't turning into some lovestruck idiot. Because Sarah Walker must have men falling at her feet. The last thing she probably wanted was to add him to the ranks of her admirers.

Charles closed the door carefully behind him, making sure the click wasn't loud enough to wake her. Then he faced forward and focused on what he was supposed to be doing: his job.

End, Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**A Flip of the Coin 2/4**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T for language, sex and violence

**Summary**: What made Charles Carmichael agree to become Chuck Bartowski? Well, to start, it wasn't as much of a change as you'd think. A companion to the early chapters of **Two Sides of the Same Coin** from Carmichael's perspective.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note**: This chapter was a total bear to write. If it hadn't been for Steampunk . Chuckster, I might not have gotten this out today! So it's thanks to the best writing buddy around that this chapter is ready to go. :-)

Please note that like **Two Sides of the Same Coin**, this story is now rated T.

XXX

After what happened in the Dominican Republic, Charles cancelled his leave and went back to work. The last thing he needed was time to think. What he needed was work. Lots of work.

And fortunately there was plenty of that available.

The next month passed in a blur as he hopscotched the world, going from New York to India to Thailand to South Africa to Norway. As soon as he wrapped up one assignment, he took another. It didn't matter who he was working with, what the mission required: if it kept him busy, kept him from having to think, he did it.

He couldn't keep this up for long, he knew. But he was going to for as long as he could.

Tonight he was attending a consulate dinner in Kiev, held in a luxury hotel in the heart of the Baltic city. He was escorting a female agent who would be charming the socks-and probably more-off their target, in order to obtain a flash drive with his contact list. Charles didn't know the agent very well, but it didn't matter. He was just there to be muscle and provide a cover.

Glancing at his watch, Charles adjusted his straight tie and checked his cuffs. The CIA had gotten a room for them in the same hotel as the dinner, for the benefit of their cover. But even with that proximity, if Agent Valenzuela didn't move her shapely ass, they were going to be more than fashionably late for tonight's dinner.

On cue, the bathroom door opened and Agent Valenzuela stepped out, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders in waves. Her dress was long, form-fitting, and bright red, amply displaying her assets. Thanks to her heels, she was elevated all the way to five foot five. "Ready, Agent Carmichael?"

Charles nodded and straightened up. "Yes, Agent Valenzuela." He offered her his arm. "Need a hand?"

She let out a tinkling little laugh and latched onto his arm. "I do. Damn heels, but they're necessary."

"I feel the same way about them, too," he said absent-mindedly, sweeping his eyes around the corridor as they left their room.

"And how often have you ended up in four-inch heels, Carmichael?" she asked, smirking up at him.

"More times than I should admit to," Charles said, trying to keep things light and easy. Being sullen and withdrawn would do more harm than good, even if that was how he felt like being. But when you were Charles Carmichael, that usually meant acting differently from how you felt.

Agent Valenzuela snorted softly. "Haven't we all?" She stumbled slightly and gripped his arm. "Damn these things. I feel like an elephant on roller skates, to use the words of my Farm roommate."

He let out a soft chuckle. "It's a good metaphor."

"She had a way with words," Valenzuela said, a sad smile on her face.

"Had?" Charles asked, glancing at her.

Valenzuela nodded. "Killed in the line of duty about three months ago. I told her she'd wind up dead from that damn project, but she wouldn't listen to me."

His curiosity piqued by her words, Charles looked at her as they stepped onto the elevator. "What project?"

"I probably shouldn't say . . ." she said, worrying her lower lip for a moment. Then she shrugged. "But it's not like you don't know about it. Because everyone knows about the Intersect."

"I have heard about it . . . although not for a while," Charles said.

Even with his clearance level, the info about the Intersect was pretty scarce. It was some kind of specialized database, he knew, devised after September 11th when the CIA and NSA realized they needed to do a better job of sharing their intelligence. There had been a lot of fanfare about it at the beginning-speeches about working with their colleagues in Fort Meade to keep America, and the world, safe, agents gossiping about who might end up working on the project. But then the trickle of news about the Intersect completely dried up.

It wasn't that surprising, he knew. Lots of projects started off with a bang and then collapsed into a colossal screw-up, something to be swept under the proverbial carpet as quickly as possible. But hearing about Valenzuela's friend made him wonder just what the story was about this project. Because if agents were getting killed because of it, it made him want to do something to help.

"Anna had to take the big crunch in order to protect the damn thing, and now they're saying that because it was so top-secret hush-hush, she won't get listed on the Memorial Wall," Valenzuela said, her voice bitter.

"We all know that the Memorial Wall is missing dozens, hundreds of names," Charles said. "As long as you remember Anna and honor her service, she's not forgotten."

Valenzuela blew out a breath, stirring the tendrils of hair around her face. "I know that." She paused and looked up at him. "I'm sorry. I'm going to visit her family after this mission, to tell them Anna's goodbyes, so . . . this is all weighing on me."

"I understand," Charles said simply. "How can I help tonight to make things go smoothly?"

"I'll be fine," she said, squaring her shoulders as they walked off the elevator. "Having Charles Carmichael on your mission gives you the magic touch," she said with a smile.

He doubted that, but if she needed to think that in order to get through this mission, he wasn't going to disabuse her of the notion. So Charles simply nodded and did what he was supposed to do. Yet in the back of his mind, he felt the idea of the Intersect gnawing on him.

When this assignment was over, perhaps it was time to go back to D.C. Time to learn more about the Intersect.

XXX

Two years ago, when he decided to put the money piling up in his bank account to good use, Charles bought a condo in the West End neighborhood between Dupont Circle and Georgetown. It was only a studio but it suited him during those infrequent occasions he stayed in D.C. But now, it was feeling a bit cramped.

But that would happen when you spent three weeks never leaving a four hundred square foot apartment.

Normally, the studio was bright and airy in spite of its size. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in plenty of natural light when the blinds were raised. The walls were painted white and covered with black and white photos of Washington landmarks. Dark hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances, and sleek electronics further enhanced the state-of-the-art feel to the apartment.

Right now, though, it was a pigsty, Charles had to admit. Stacks of file folders covered every horizontal surface, including the floor and his bed. Pizza boxes and Chinese cartons cluttered the countertops, and water bottles in various stages of fullness were dotted around the apartment. After Valenzuela had gotten the flash drive and they had left Kiev, he had come back to Washington and gone to Headquarters, collecting all the files he could carry out. Researching the Intersect was just the kind of huge, sprawling project he needed. Something to keep his mind busy if he wasn't on missions. And when he got in that bury-himself-in-work mode, his living conditions deteriorated.

It didn't matter, though. Because he was on to something. Something big, something that could change everything.

For the last three years, the CIA had been tracking a terrorist group called Fulcrum. Not much was known about them-undercover agents had a bad tendency to die or go rogue when they went into Fulcrum, it seemed. What the CIA did know was that Fulcrum thought they were protecting the United States by using methods and techniques that were "more innovative" than those used by other intelligence agencies.

What exactly were these more innovative methods was unknown . . . until Valenzuela's friend, one Anna Smith, used her cyanide capsule to avoid being captured by Fulcrum. She had been involved with the Intersect project in some capacity-something high-level, something that involved protecting the Intersect at all costs. And right before she died, Smith managed to send back a message to her handlers, indicating that Fulcrum had been tracking her movements. Tracking the Intersect.

When Charles read that detail in a top-secret, highly classified report, the pieces started falling into place. Fulcrum wanted the Intersect for themselves. It explained a group of seemingly-unconnected crimes from the daily intelligence reports: the robberies at out-of-the-way storage depots, the hacking attempts on the CIA's mainframe, and more. That didn't explain how Smith had been able to protect the Intersect after her death, though-wouldn't Fulcrum have searched her to find the computer or flash drive that the Intersect was on? Charles guessed they hadn't found it. And it would seem that if they couldn't capture the Intersect, Fulcrum was going to learn all it could about it.

And that meant he should, too. Because he was getting an idea for his next assignment. It would be big. It would involve taking out Fulcrum, using the Intersect in some way. But the more he researched the Intersect, the more questions he had. It was driving him a little bit crazy, actually.

As far as he could tell, if he wanted more information about the Intersect, he would have to go to Graham and get clearance. And that was a conversation he wasn't looking forward to. Not after what had happened in the Dominican Republic.

Taking a deep breath, Charles stood up and stretched a little, feeling how stiff he was. He hadn't been diligent about his workouts during the last few weeks-not to mention bathing. A shower and a shave would be in order before he met with Graham. And it would give him a little time to prepare himself.

He had done his best to not think about Sarah Walker. And he had succeeded. Mostly. It took force of will, a mountain of research, and working until he was exhausted to keep her out of his thoughts, though. But was that the best way of dealing with what had happened?

From that first moment he had laid eyes on her, as she walked towards him, there had been an inexplicable connection between them. It was chemical, biological, magical . . . it didn't seem to care about logic or reason or reality. All that mattered was the few days he had spent with Sarah Walker hadn't been nearly enough. He wanted more. Much more.

_Then maybe you shouldn't have slept with her, Carmichael. _

Charles groaned and headed towards his bathroom, starting the shower and setting the temperature at just above lukewarm. The last thing he needed right now was a hot shower.

Stepping under the spray after he shucked his clothes, Charles rotated his head on his neck and rolled his shoulders. He had made his bed-now he had to lie in it. And that was about the worst metaphor ever given what had occurred between them, he conceded with a sigh.

Walker didn't seem like the type to go crying to Graham about what had happened in the Dominican Republic. Of course, if Graham knew about their interaction, he wouldn't be so obvious as to call Charles in for a dressing-down. No, Graham would have just sent him to the Falklands or something equally awful. But still, Charles doubted that Walker had done much talking about what had transpired between them-just like him.

So it wasn't like he had anything to worry about when he saw Graham. Other than keeping his mind on his work, instead of thinking about Sarah Walker and how he felt when he was around her. And since the likelihood of their paths crossing again was slight, there was no reason for him to avoid the thought of her. He wasn't some teenager with a crush. It was time he remembered that.

XXX

The longer he waited in Graham's outer office, the more he wanted to jiggle his leg or tap his fingers against the folders in his lap. Anything to release the nervous energy inside him. But he suppressed the urge, because it was too much like something he did as a kid. It had been a long time since he felt this apprehensive before meeting with his boss. But then, this was not a normal meeting. He was going out on a limb by presenting his idea to Graham. And it could wind up playing into the deputy director's hands.

Because this job was going to be a lot bigger than just Charles Carmichael. There would need to be a team to pull this off. So after years of denying the leadership of task forces and workgroups, he was going to be stuck with being in charge.

But maybe that was a good thing. It would give him a chance to get his bearings. Figure out this strange conflict that had developed inside him, these impulses to play video games and fidget and get lost in thought. Especially when those impulses lead to thoughts like what books he would take to a desert island or whether he might ever see Sarah Walker again.

The sight of Graham's assistant approaching him made him shove such thoughts to the back of his mind. "Is he ready for me, Anne?" he asked, straightening up in his chair.

"Yes, Agent Carmichael-go right on in," Anne said, nodding to him.

"Thank you," he said, getting up and heading towards the doors into the inner office. Charles paused in front of the doors and took a moment to collect himself. Then he opened the doors and stepped into the office.

As he approached Graham, the older man rose. "It's a surprise to see you, Agent Carmichael."

"Thank you for fitting me in," Charles said, restraining himself from immediately getting down to business. Sometimes you had to play the political game-even though he disliked it. A lot.

"Of course, of course. You have something to present to me?"

Charles nodded and walked over to the table and chairs in one corner of Graham's office. It would be easier to spread out the papers he had at the table instead of passing them back and forth across Graham's desk. "I do. I've been doing some research and I believe there's something we've missed about Fulcrum."

Graham's eyebrows went up slightly, but he remained silent and took a seat at the table. As Charles began explaining the connection between Fulcrum and the Intersect, Graham kept his face blank. That wasn't very unusual-after all, at his level Graham had to have a damn good poker face. But coupled with the anxiety that Charles was already feeling, it wasn't exactly comforting.

"In short, I believe that Fulcrum is determined to acquire the Intersect. Either the actual technology behind it, or simply the raw intelligence. It's difficult to understand how they weren't able to obtain the Intersect from Agent Smith after her capture, but at my clearance level I had to make some inferences," Charles concluded, folding his hands on the table.

"So what are you saying, Carmichael?" Graham asked, leaning back in his chair.

Here it was: the time to make the CIA's dreams come true. Taking a breath, Charles plunged in. "I want to lead a team that will go after Fulcrum. Using the Intersect."

Whatever kind of reaction he was expecting from Graham, he didn't get it. In fact, there was no reaction. Graham just looked at him, his face blank.

"I know this must seem to be coming out of the blue," Charles said, stumbling over his words in a way that he never did. At least, not since he was a teenager. "But with the research I've done so far, I know this is what Fulcrum is planning. And I want to stop it."

"You've finally found something that requires your skills," Graham said. "After years of requests, you're deigning to work with the rest of us."

Charles felt Graham's words land on him like a body blow. Shit. This was bad. It would appear that denying all those task forces and teams was about to blow up in his face.

"Unfortunately, Agent Carmichael, the CIA already has a highly-qualified team of agents working on analyzing and addressing the threat posed by Fulcrum. They've been on the case for nearly two years now. I don't believe they require any assistance." Graham rose from his chair. "Is that all?"

At being so clearly dismissed, Charles felt a flicker of anger. "What about the Intersect?" he asked, rising to his feet and taking full advantage of his height.

"The Intersect Project has been a noble experiment, but we are currently assessing our involvement," Graham said flatly. "We've lost two agents to it already and we have no idea how to prevent such losses. Even with dozens of the best scientists in the world working on this."

Two agents? He only knew about one-Valenzuela's friend. And the idea that the CIA was considering pulling out was certainly news to him. But that meant the window of opportunity was closing quickly. If he didn't find out just what the Intersect was now, soon it would be buried away and completely inaccessible.

"Still, I'd like to learn more about the Intersect, sir," Charles said. "Perhaps the scientists haven't seen a better use for it, since they're not field agents. I'd like to try, before the CIA gives up on the project."

For a long moment, they faced off across the table. Then Graham shook his head. "There's no need, Agent Carmichael. The Intersect is a failure and it's time for the NSA and the CIA to reallocate their resources towards new options. And that includes you."

Charles blinked as Graham walked over to his desk and picked up a folder. "There's an assignment in New York that could use your assistance. Bryce Larkin came back from his deep cover operation with some rust on him and you're just the man to help knock it off."

Given the history between himself and Bryce Larkin-the history that Charles was fairly sure Graham knew nothing about-that kind of request was a dangerous one. And he was tempted to keep pressing his case about the Intersect. But he knew it was hopeless. Graham had that "my mind is made up" tone to his voice and Charles was already on thin ice. As much as he didn't want to, it was time to cut his losses and regroup. Find another way to get what he wanted.

Because he didn't agree with Graham. It wasn't time to write off the Intersect-not when it was what Fulcrum wanted. And he had to admit, his curiosity about this strange project was too strong to let it go. Just what was the Intersect? Why did Fulcrum want it so badly? And how had it managed to slip through their fingers so far?

He was going to find out, one way or another. The above-board way hadn't worked, so it was time to brainstorm some more creative methods.

XXX

Lifting his umbrella over his head, Charles stepped out of the taxi that had deposited him outside an office building on West 59th Street, not far from the Hudson River. The building was ramshackle and dilapidated looking, sharing the block with a parking lot. The rain pouring from the sky made the area look even more bleak and forbidding. In short, it was a perfect spy base.

Hurrying up the sidewalk, Charles found the access panel and punched the entry code on the keypad. The door unlocked with a soft click and he stepped inside, a shower of raindrops falling onto him from his umbrella as he closed it. Grateful that he was dressed casually in jeans, boots and a leather jacket, Charles looked around.

The insides weren't much better than the outside, but at least there was heat. And he could hear a faint hum of conversation from down the hall, so he headed in that direction. As he approached the room at the end of the hall, the buzz got louder. But when he opened the door and stepped inside, a silence fell over the room.

It looked like your typical office: cubicles, computers, and bad lighting. But Charles knew that appearances were often deceiving. And all of the people in this room were too fit and too attractive to be anything other than spies.

Looking around, he didn't see Bryce. So he lifted his voice, making it carry through the room. "Is Agent Larkin here?"

After a moment, Bryce Larkin appeared at the back of the room and walked towards Charles. Conversations resumed for the most part, although Charles could sense the curiosity in the room.

"Carmichael," Bryce said, folding his arms over his chest. His suit, although impeccably tailored, looked a bit rumpled. Like it had been a long day already, even though it was just past lunchtime.

Hmm. Looked like Bryce had some bee in his bonnet if he was keeping this on a last name basis. Charles just nodded. "Hi, Larkin. Graham sent me-said there was something I could do to help out?"

"And here I thought this day couldn't get any worse," Bryce said. "Yeah, I guess so. C'mon back to my desk and we'll talk."

"Rough morning?" Charles asked as he followed Bryce. It had been several years since they had spent any time together, but they had been in the same training class at the Farm and had even shared a room for a while. He had always considered them friendly, even with what happened with Roberts.

"Don't ever dump your partner without telling her first, Carmichael. But then, you're smart enough to not have a partner," Bryce said, glancing back at him over his shoulder.

His words nearly made Charles stumble. How could he have forgotten? Bryce had been Walker's partner.

Actually, he hadn't forgotten. Not at all. From the moment that Graham had said he would be coming to New York and meeting with Bryce, he had that thought going through his mind. But he had just pushed that thought out of his mind and focused on the drama that already existed between himself and Bryce. Because it was depressing enough to have Bryce Larkin unknowingly steal the girl he had been interested in when they were at the Farm. But to have history repeat itself by Bryce once again having a woman that Charles was intrigued by . . .

Giving his head a shake, Charles tried to keep his voice light. "Yeah, I heard about what happened with you and Walker."

Bryce slumped into his chair. "It was a mistake. One that she made sure to point out to me today at lunch. And now, here you are."

She was here? In New York?

It was so tempting to ask Bryce for more details about his lunch date with Sarah. To find out if she was staying in New York. If she had mentioned him. It was the kind of temptation that made Charles's mind skitter away from it, like a lizard moving from hot sun into cool shade. This wasn't the time or place to be asking such questions. So instead, he pushed aside any thought of Sarah Walker and concentrated on the job.

"I just want to help, Bryce," Charles said, lowering himself into the uncomfortable chair in the corner of Bryce's cubicle. "Graham sent me here, yeah, but I came because when I looked over your last few missions, it was pretty clear that something was up."

"You're still a gracious bastard, Chuck," Bryce said, leaning back in his desk chair.

At the sound of his teenage nickname-something he had revealed to Bryce in a moment of weakness-not to mention the backhanded compliment, Charles felt his back stiffen. "I've told you more than once that it's Charles now. And what happened with Roberts, I don't blame you for it. She made her choice."

"Because you wouldn't make a play for her."

"Is this really that important?" Charles asked, his voice low and just above a hiss as he leaned in towards Bryce.

"Nope," Bryce said. "Not really. But it's still important to you. Or is it something else?" His eyebrows lifted as he took in Charles.

Shit. Bryce always had an uncanny knack at reading him. But things had changed since the Farm.

Schooling his face, Charles shook his head. "I'm just here to talk about work, Bryce. Or would you prefer Agent Larkin?"

Bryce gave him a long look, then he shrugged. "Bryce is fine. Okay, Charles, lay it on me. What am I doing wrong?"

_You hurt Sarah. _

The thought sprang into his mind completely unbidden. Charles almost growled under his breath as he shoved the thought away. Jesus, he had to get himself under control. Now.

Charles removed the folder that Graham had given him from his briefcase and opened it. "Let's start with this job in Portugal," he said, picking the first mission Bryce had completed after his deep cover assignment.

To his surprise, Bryce simply nodded and leaned forward, listening to what Charles had to say. It made it easier to focus, to concentrate on work. Because although he put up a front, Bryce was going along with this now. So clearly he knew something wasn't working for him.

And it felt good to help. To get something right.

XXX

After nearly four hours of conversation, Bryce leaned back in his chair and eyed him. "You want to get a drink?"

That wasn't a good idea. Keeping his interactions with Bryce professional was already difficult with their shared history. Bryce's relationship with Sarah didn't help matters, either. Add in liquor and it could get really, really messy.

But it was now past six and he was hungry. And if he didn't get a drink and some food with Bryce, he would be on his own for dinner. The thought of trying to find someplace to eat and then having his meal alone . . . Normally, he didn't have a problem with eating by himself. But tonight, it sounded so lonely.

He would take messy drama over loneliness. At least tonight.

"As long as we get some food with it, sure," Charles said, rising to his feet.

"I know just the place," Bryce said, standing up and pulling on his trenchcoat. "C'mon. I want to hear what you're working on."

"Just doing what I can to help," Charles said, following Bryce out into the night. The rain had tapered off into barely a mist, so he kept his umbrella tucked under his arm.

Looking up at him, Bryce quirked an eyebrow, his blue eyes glowing. "Uh-huh."

"You know that's not going to work. Not anymore," Charles said. "You can't just make me spill my guts like I did in training."

"Yeah, I know," Bryce said. "Not unless you want to talk. So spill."

This was why he stayed professional with the agents he worked with. Because having a friend who was an agent was too damn annoying. Unfortunately, Charles hadn't learned that lesson until after he finished his training, and by then it was too late: he was already friends with Bryce.

And even though he hadn't seen Bryce in years and there had been plenty of misunderstandings between them, their friendship was solid enough to handle such absences, it seemed. Or maybe it had lasted simply because they hadn't seen each other.

"Fine," Charles said as they walked up to a slightly dingy-looking restaurant. "You've heard of the Intersect, right?"

Now both of Bryce's eyebrows had gone up. "Yeah, of course. What, are you getting assigned to that? It's an albatross."

Something in Bryce's voice made Charles think he had some kind of first-hand experience to go on. That was intriguing.

Their conversation was on hold while they were seated and looked over the menu. But once they had ordered burgers and beers, Bryce leaned forward, resting his folded arms on the table. "Are you, though? Getting assigned to the Intersect?"

Charles shook his head. "No . . . it's a long story, but I think Fulcrum is trying to acquire the Intersect. And I think that's the way to take out Fulcrum-find a way to use the Intersect to work against them."

"Don't know why they'd want it," Bryce said, giving their waitress a smile and an admiring glance as she put down their beers.

The sight of Bryce checking out the waitress-checking out any woman-shouldn't make him feel angry. But it did. But there was no reason for him to feel angry. None whatsoever, and certainly not because of Sarah Walker. Charles wrapped his hand around his beer and took a long swallow.

"I'm not sure, either," Charles answered, focusing instead on Bryce's question. "I'm still not even sure how the Intersect works exactly."

Bryce lifted his glass and eyed Charles over the rim. "Have you talked to Graham?"

"Of course I did. He stonewalled me," Charles said, making himself sip his beer rather than chugging it and ordering another.

"Seriously?" He sounded absolutely shocked.

"Yes, seriously," Charles said, losing his patience a little. "I said I wanted to lead a team that would go after Fulcrum, lure them out with the Intersect, and Graham turned me down. Then when I said I wanted more info about the Intersect at least, he refused and shoved this job on me."

Giving up on politeness for appearance's sake, Charles took a few large swallows of his beer. He coughed and looked at Bryce, who still looked surprised. Breathing a few times, Charles got himself under control.

"I suppose I asked for too much," Charles said quietly, rubbing his thumb against his glass. "I probably pissed off Graham by acting like I was doing him a favor-not to mention the whole CIA-by finally agreeing to lead a team but only on my terms. No wonder he blew me off."

"What's got you so interested in the Intersect, though? If you were talking about it two, three years ago, when it was hot shit, I'd understand that. But now?" Bryce shrugged. "It's old news. Maybe that's what Graham was trying to say."

Charles considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "No . . . I think it was more personal. And I think it was mostly about me offering to be a team leader, of a team of my own making, than something Graham had set up."

"The man is pretty much the classic definition of 'control freak'," Bryce commented. "But that's his job."

"I know," Charles said. And he really did know that. Graham hadn't gotten to where he was by not sweating the small stuff. By offering to create his own team, Charles was usurping Graham's control. So it was no wonder he got slapped down.

"So why the Intersect?" Bryce asked after a few moments of silence.

Ready to reply, Charles opened his mouth only to hesitate. Bryce seemed really interested in knowing what Charles was after when it came to the Intersect. It was more than normal friendly curiosity, or even a professional interest. No . . . Bryce had some angle going on. Something he was keeping quiet about. And that made Charles consider holding back a little.

After all, he was already keeping a big secret: his interaction with Sarah. What was one more lie of omission?

"I got curious because there's just been no news about the Intersect lately. I've kind of been following it since the start," Charles said. "Not to mention that no one really seems to know what the Intersect really is."

He did his best to sell it, but he wasn't entirely sure that Bryce was buying it. Fortunately, their large, greasy burgers arrived at that moment. It saved him from having to say anything more about the Intersect, let him shift the conversation to the food and how much longer Bryce might be in New York. Keeping things light and easy, making it easy to wrap up this dinner and leave when it was done.

No muss, no fuss. Something that had been lacking in his life lately.

Perhaps Graham's refusal to go along with his Fulcrum plan was a sign. He had felt off his game for weeks now, ever since these strange, unsettled feelings had begun. Just because his life was currently a bit empty didn't mean he had to change things up. Didn't mean he had to throw away his present and embrace his past. He had pushed away Chuck Bartowski for good, valid reasons. Video games and comic books were fun, but they weren't something a grown-up valued as much as a kid did.

It was like the Bible quote-putting away childish things. The life he lived now, being a spy-it was like a real-life video game. What computerized version could compare to that? There was no reason to become some nerd in order to feel like he was living his life to the fullest.

His job was enough to feel full. He didn't need hobbies or a relationship, something external. If he wanted to make a change, he could start by focusing on himself. It was time for him to regroup and figure out what was next for him, find a new assignment that could challenge and excite him.

That would be all he needed. A mission.

XXX

With a sigh, Charles unlocked the door of his studio and stepped inside. The monthly housekeeping service he used had long ago removed the signs of his research bender, so the condo was back to its normal pristine condition. It was a shame that his dirty clothes and grubby appearance would mar the perfection.

But he was too damn tired to care that much.

Since he left New York, he had focused on the job. A task force was making their move against a group of Afghani terrorists and needed help in the field, so he had spent the last three weeks hip-deep in sand, his skin tanning to a light golden brown as his hair and beard had grown out. He couldn't wait to get a haircut and a shave, to feel like himself again.

He frowned when he heard a crackle under his foot. Looking down, he realized he had stepped on a package that he hadn't seen in the dim light of the pre-dawn hours, a package that was resting on the floor just inside the door. Probably it had been delivered and left at his front door and his housekeeper had brought it in. But why leave it on the floor, instead of on the kitchen counter?

Dropping his duffel bag, Charles leaned down and picked up the package. He reached out and flipped on the light switch as he locked the door behind him. His hand stayed on the lock when he realized the package bore no postage, no address. Nothing.

The exhausted fog he had been in immediately lifted as his brain took over. He yanked the door open and looked at the lock, noticing the small scratches: clear signs of lockpicks being used. Closing the door, he carried the package over to his kitchen counter and turned on all the lights, in order to examine this parcel more thoroughly.

It was a fairly innocuous looking package: wrapped in brown kraft paper, about nine inches wide, twelve inches long, and three inches deep. There had been a feeling of flexibility to it when he was holding it, almost floppiness.

Someone had broken into his home and left him something. He had no idea what it might be or who could have done this. The proper, by-the-book decision at this point would be to call the police or at the very least take it to the Agency without unwrapping it.

But Charles did neither of those things. Instead, he ripped open the paper wrapper, revealing a stack of files.

That was not what he expected. Blinking, Charles opened the top folder, trying to determine just what this was, why he had received paperwork under such secretive circumstances-

When he read the words on the first page of the file, he felt his eyes go very, very wide. Because amid several red ink stamped TOP SECRET and some blacked-out lines, there were two very important, unbelievable words.

_Project Intersect_.

What?

Charles shuffled through the files. It appeared that he had received a complete set of files on the Intersect-schematics, timelines, personality assessments . . .

A chill went down his spine when he realized, from the age of the papers in some of the folders, that the Intersect Project must have been in existence well before its official creation date post-September 11th. The sheer amount of information supported that idea.

Just what the hell was the Intersect?

All thoughts of a shower, shave, and bed fled his mind. Instead, he pulled out one of the high bar stools that was pulled up to the counter and sat down. He bent his head and began reading.

The more he read, the more he felt overwhelmed and shocked. The Intersect was a project that the CIA had been working on for decades. It was a computer database, yes-but one that was designed to be uploaded into an agent's mind.

That revelation made him sit back in his seat, needing a few moments to process. Such an idea sounded like science fiction, like one of the movies he used to watch on TV late at night while having sleepovers with Morgan. It shouldn't be possible . . . but here he was looking at evidence that it was more than possible.

What an amazing concept! Imagine having the vast information resources of the CIA and NSA, at your disposal. No more having to recover data and send it in for analysis while you were left waiting; your own mind would help perform the analysis. Or you could receive the intel you needed while out in the field. Your case closure rate would skyrocket.

His thoughts sobered when he realized something else. That must be what had happened to poor Agent Smith-she had the Intersect in her head, and with her death the Intersect was gone. That was how Fulcrum had not gained the Intersect with her death. It was incredibly ingenious-it meant that the Intersect was protected like almost no other intelligence was.

Charles could feel his mind whirling as the wealth of possibilities presented themselves to him. He leaned in and started reading again, turning through the pages and devouring all that was there about the Intersect.

By the time he finished reading, the sun had risen well above the horizon. He was even more exhausted, his skin itched from the caked-on sand and dirt, and his throat and stomach protested their lack of food and drink. But none of it mattered, because he knew what he wanted to do.

It would involve taking a page from the first experiment with the Intersect-one that involved not just uploading a preliminary version of the Intersect, but a brand-new personality. The experiment was intended to test the Intersect's ability to allow agents to go into deep cover situations without compromising their fake identity. The experiment had failed, but there was potential there, he thought. At least, with his limited knowledge about the brain, he thought it was a possibility.

But he knew someone who was an expert. Someone he could talk to about something so far-fetched. But it would be an awkward conversation.

Looking at the nearest clock, Charles calculated the time difference between D.C. and Los Angeles. Ellie might be up, but given her schedule, it would be best to send her a text and make sure she was awake instead of calling out of the blue. Even though the wait was frustrating, a grouchy Ellie would be difficult to manage.

In the back of his mind, he felt a pang of guilt at the thought of 'managing' his sister. But it would be for her own good, he argued with himself. He did truly love her, but he knew how much she missed him. How she wished that he might have a different job, regardless of how proud she was of him, because she wanted to see him more frequently.

Yet if Ellie approved of his idea, if she could help him with what he needed, she might get her wish.

The ringing of his cell phone drew him out of his thoughts and he saw, happily, that it was Ellie.

"Chuck!" she proclaimed. He could practically hear the smile that must be on her face. "Oh, I know you're Charles now, but I was so excited to see your text that it just slipped out."

"No, no, it's okay," Charles said, reassuring her. "I'm just happy to hear from you so quickly. Because . . . because I need your help, Ellie."

As he said the words, Charles realized that any idea he had of managing Ellie was the height of foolishness. Because he couldn't do it. Asking for her help was the first step in making his plan happen, but the tone of voice that he had made his request had been pure younger brother. It was the tone of a man who truly did need help and was turning to his only family.

This wasn't some kind of con. The fact that he had even considered trying to manipulate Ellie made him feel sick to his stomach. Just how far had he overshot the mark in trying to correct his course? In trying to push aside those instincts that had been tugging on him, those strange feelings to become more like Chuck, he had gone too far and tried to be too much like some cold, distant spy.

Charles swallowed, feeling a wave of guilt and disgust. But there was also determination. Because he was going to fix this. He wasn't cut out to be all spy. He didn't want to be like that, and if he kept fighting himself, he would give in and let himself become hard and deadly and dark.

So . . . so he had to do everything he could to explain this to Ellie. To make this work. Because he wanted to discover what it would be like to be Chuck Bartowski again. To reconnect with that side of himself he had pushed aside, to enjoy once again the things he used to love that he let go of in order to become "normal."

There were so many risks involved. He didn't know if he would be successful in persuading her. But he was going to try. Because he needed an escape. A way to right his ship.

"Charles?"

Ellie's voice sounded concerned. Worried, even. It brought him back to Earth. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I asked how can I help."

Once upon a time, things had been that simple for him. If Ellie had called and asked for his help, his first instinct would have been to help her. Now? Now, he wasn't so sure. But by helping him, Ellie would let him see if there was hope for him.

Taking a deep breath, Charles gathered his thoughts. "It's going to sound crazy, Ellie. And for now, you can't tell Devon about this. But . . . but do you think it's possible to upload information into the human brain? As if it was a computer?"

And as he waited for Ellie's answer, Charles knew she held his future in her hands.

End, Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**A Flip of the Coin 3/4**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T for language, sex and violence

**Summary**: What made Charles Carmichael agree to become Chuck Bartowski? Well, to start, it wasn't as much of a change as you'd think. A companion to the early chapters of **Two Sides of the Same Coin** from Carmichael's perspective.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note**: So I was lucky enough to go to New York this past weekend and have a lot of fun, including seeing First Date two times. So needless to say, not a lot of writing got done. I had to write a LOT over the last day in order to have this chapter ready to go. It might be a little rough around the edges, but I think this chapter turned out pretty well. I hope you enjoy!

XXX

Graham was the first person to try and persuade Charles Carmichael to forget about the Intersect And he wasn't the last. But Charles wouldn't let that stop him.

He knew the Intersect was the key: it was what Fulcrum wanted and it was how the terrorist group could be defeated. But more than that, the Intersect-and its untapped potential-seemed to be the answer to his dilemma.

Just who was he when he left his job out of the equation? He didn't really know-any hobbies or pastimes he had once possessed had evaporated over the years. In boarding school he had given up video games, comic books and sci-fi movies, but hadn't replaced them with anything else. He had tried to tell himself that he just needed his work, that being a spy was enough to satisfy him. But it just wouldn't stick. After years of thrills, the excitement had completely dissipated. He was just going through the motions.

Charles frowned slightly as he walked through the halls of CIA headquarters, pondering that thought. If his career had become nothing more than routine, what was he going to do if today's meeting ended like all the other ones had?

Precisely at three o'clock this afternoon, Charles would be making his last effort to sell the CIA on his plan. If this meeting ended in failure, he knew he would have to give up. There were no other avenues to pursue, no more favors to call in. He had pulled every string at his disposal over the last two months, trying to make this mission a reality. In fact, when it came to his balance sheet and the amount of his influence, he was now in major debt.

Hopefully it would all be worth it. Hopefully today's meeting would end with the CIA agreeing with the NSA and giving this operation the green light.

Because if they didn't . . . Charles didn't know what he was going to do. And now he wouldn't have any protection from the ebbs and flows of Agency politics.

It was a bit galling to realize how much his status among other CIA agents actually mattered to him. How much he preferred being able to make his own rules. He hadn't realized he was as much of a snob as he apparently was. But if he had to go back to being just another agent, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to do it. Not with how his job wasn't a challenge anymore.

Squaring his shoulders and drawing himself up to his full height, Charles tried to think positively. Until the meeting was over and he had the final answer, he shouldn't let himself be distracted by the what-ifs. After all, there were some positives already. Having the NSA throw support behind his project had been a major reason it wasn't already dead. General Diane Beckman had lived up to her reputation as a savvy intelligence officer by immediately grasping what Charles wanted to do with the Intersect.

It had been like that with Ellie, too. That first conversation reminded him just how brilliant his sister was. He had always suspected she was smarter than he was, thanks to several childhood incidents like the time with their Rubik's cubes. But now he knew she was. As he explained what he knew about the Intersect during that phone call-the first of many-Ellie had immediately begun asking questions and giving him background on neuroscience The more they talked about what the Intersect could do, the more excited Ellie got about it-not unlike him. Although Ellie hadn't held back on expressing her worries about it, too.

"Does it have to be you, Charles? Wouldn't it be enough if you worked with whoever got this Intersect?"

As much as he hated making Ellie worry . . . no, it wasn't enough. It had to be him, if only to prove how committed he was to the project. And there was his secret hope that this whole experiment would clear up his confusion.

Finally arriving at his destination, Charles settled in at the cubicle he had claimed. It had been his office for the last two months but it hadn't really changed any in that time: still a cube of grey plastic and fabric where he could set up his laptop. He had never spent so much time out of the field in his career-had never spent so much time in one place since he left college. But to his surprise, he hadn't felt the itch to get moving like he thought he would. No, his brain had been so engaged in this challenge that he hadn't wanted to go out into the field.

And even better, he hadn't thought much about Sarah Walker, either.

_If by 'much' you meant 'more than a dozen times a day', that is._

It was damn frustrating to be able to argue with yourself like this, Charles thought with a sigh. Okay, so maybe he still thought about Sarah more than he should. More than a man who should have gotten past this by now. but even if he did keep thinking about her, it hadn't affected his work at all. Hadn't impacted his decisions.

No, he was fighting for this operation for himself. For what it could mean for him.

Booting up his computer, Charles started working on putting the final touches on his presentation.

XXX

The hours seemed to pass in a flash. One minute he had begun work just before nine and the next, the alarm on his phone was beeping, telling him he had forty-five minutes before the meeting.

Pushing back from his computer, Charles rose and stretched, hearing his back crack and wincing at the sound. A quick trip to the nearest restroom let him tidy up, making sure his conservative black suit was free of lint, his tie was straight and his hair was tamed. Then he gathered his laptop and headed towards the conference room he had booked.

As he set up the computer and hooked it up to the projector, Charles gave himself a mental pep talk. If he showed any hesitation or doubt, Graham would seize upon that. And there couldn't be any doubt about this. Graham clearly didn't believe the Intersect would ever work. Charles could understand that, but he didn't believe it. The Intersect could work if put into the right agent. And Charles knew, somehow, that he was that agent.

"You can do this," he said softly under his breath, feeling slightly like his teenage self for needing to say the words out loud.

The sound of the conference room door loudly being closed made Charles turn around, hoping that his quiet words hadn't been audible. But from the look on Graham's face, Charles hadn't been so lucky.

"Agent Carmichael," Graham said with a nod, his voice icy.

"Director," Charles replied, standing up. "Please, have a seat."

Without another word, Graham took the chair closest to the door and sat down, folding his arms over his chest.

It took a lot to keep his face blank, but Charles did his best. He knew that Graham's trust in him had been severely eroded by the mysterious benefactor's gift of the Intersect files. Even though he had tried to discover how the files had ended up in his condo, Charles had come up with nothing. The video cameras in the building-a big reason he had chosen to buy his particular unit-had malfunctioned on three different occasions in the week before he had returned to D.C. and found the Intersect data, so there was no way of telling even when the files had been delivered, let alone who had done so.

Graham hadn't been thrilled when he found out about that special delivery. After all, he had denied Charles's request for more information on the Intersect. Charles had seen real, unvarnished anger on the deputy director's face when, two days after getting the files, Charles had turned them all over to the CIA. But not before Charles made several backups of the data. He hadn't told Graham about the copies, but he knew his boss had to suspect Charles had done that.

Perhaps that was why Graham was so opposed to his plans for the Intersect: Charles kept making a nuisance of himself over this. Whether it was deigning to become a team leader or "finding" the Intersect info he wanted, Charles hadn't played by the rules or worked the political angles. And to a control freak like Graham, that must be a pain in the ass.

Charles swallowed and looked at his laptop. Maybe he should just cancel this meeting and-

What? Give up? Admit he had been wasting his time? No-no, this wasn't a waste. The Intersect wasn't just what Fulcrum wanted, it was how to take them out. Somebody like Sun-Tzu must have some maxim about using what your enemy wanted to defeat them. That's what needed to happen.

A spark sprang to life inside him. He would convince Graham and the rest of the bosses. He was going to make his ideas into reality, into a real mission-more than that. He was going to make it a success.

Using the Intersect, he and the rest of the as-yet-unformed team would take out Fulcrum. And he would get a chance to escape from Charles Carmichael and find out who he really was.

The arrival of Beckman, as well as an assortment of NSA and CIA higher-ups, made Charles shift into meet-and-greet mode. Once everyone was settled in, he took his position at the head of the table by his laptop.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming here today. I know that many of you have attended several meetings with me over the last two months and I appreciate your presence here." Charles paused and swept his eyes over the room, taking in the faces of the people who he was trying, with all his skill, to persuade.

Since everyone already knew the basics of the Intersect, Charles didn't go over those details again, although he made sure to tell everyone that he was happy to answer questions at any time. Then he dove into his presentation, laying out what this operation would encompass.

"Fulcrum appears to be based on the West Coast. The Intersect team would form a base of operations in Southern California, putting them in close proximity to the action. This team would be small and nimble; I picture only four agents at most, including myself. Both CIA and NSA agents would be considered for the team. We would report directly to General Beckman and Director Graham, as a joint task force of the CIA and NSA."

"Just how will you be moving against Fulcrum, Agent Carmichael?" asked one of the CIA directors. "Being close to them doesn't guarantee you'll be able to make inroads against Fulcrum."

"Of course not," Charles said, nodding in agreement. "We'll be relying upon the intelligence gathered by both the CIA and the NSA, as well as what's already in the Intersect, to direct our actions. And we'll be receiving assignments from the director and general, too."

General Beckman leaned forward in her chair. Her presence vastly outstripped her physical size; Charles had seen men taller and bigger than himself snap to attention, the whites of their eyes showing, when Beckman glared at them. "This sort of innovative, out-of-the-box thinking is exactly what we need to deal with Fulcrum. They've been one step ahead of us from the start-it's time we stopped sitting on our hands."

"Perhaps that's how it's been for the NSA," Graham said darkly. "The CIA has been quite pleased with our progress so far."

If this got into a clash of inter-agency politics, Charles would lose the small amount of control he had. But he couldn't cut off Beckman to satisfy Graham, because then he'd lose some of Beckman's support. Before he could decide how to respond, Graham kept talking.

"So far, the CIA has lost two young agents to the Intersect. We're not eager to lose an agent of the caliber of Agent Carmichael. If the Intersect can be loaded into his brain without any complications-which is not a given at this point-there's the fact that he is well-known in the intelligence community. Fulcrum is full of traitors and double agents. How could Agent Carmichael not be identified and captured?"

The worst thing you could do in this sort of situation was to show you had been out-thought. Charles very nearly broke that rule, though, because Graham's objection wasn't just sound-it was an obvious one. Just yesterday, he had learned that Agent Shaw had gone rogue and was rumored to have joined Fulcrum. If he crossed paths with Charles, the game would be over.

To buy himself some time to think, Charles focused on Graham's first objection. "After Agent Jones's unfortunate reaction to the Intersect, there were major changes made to the upload process. As a result, Agent Smith was able to use the Intersect effectively until Fulcrum closed in on her. I would suggest that we retain the services of a neurologist to monitor my brain once the Intersect has been uploaded, and throughout the course of the operation."

"I don't know that I'd trust many of our scientists in such a covert role," Graham said.

Beckman shook her head. "Neither would I."

"The doctor I have in mind has impeccable credentials and a strong motive to keep me safe," Charles said, locking his eyes on Beckman and Graham. "My sister, Doctor Eleanor Woodcomb, is on staff at Westside Memorial Hospital in Los Angeles and is regarded as one of the best young neurologists in California."

He could see Beckman's eyebrows rise slightly; Graham did not reveal his reaction to Charles's statement.

"That satisfies me," Beckman said. "And I'm sure your scientists would appreciate the data from Doctor Woodcomb, Langston."

"Hmm," Graham said noncommittally. "I'm still concerned about how Agent Carmichael won't have his cover blown immediately."

So was Charles. Because how would they get around that? Sure, he could change his appearance somewhat-dye his hair, use colored contacts, stop exercising-but it could only go so far. And physical changes wouldn't fool a trained operative, especially one who already knew him. They'd be able to spot his quirks and traits, the unconscious mannerisms he had that made him into Charles Carmichael. If only he could be someone different-

Suddenly, he remembered sitting at the breakfast bar in his condo, reading over the Intersect files and realizing that this project had been in existence a lot longer than a few years. That the roots of the Intersect was in the CIA's efforts to create the perfect deep cover.

In the weeks since he had read the files, he had forgotten about how the Intersect could also be used to implant a personality into a person. He had been more focused on just convincing everyone to give the Intersect another chance. But now he knew how he could do that while addressing Graham's misgivings.

"I have a possible solution," Charles said slowly, waiting for everyone's attention to be focused on him. "It would involve using the Intersect to create a new personality for myself. One that would allow me to hide in plain sight."

"Carmichael, if you're referring to the Agent X project, no." Graham's voice was firm and final. But Charles wouldn't let him dismiss the idea so readily.

"The Agent X project was attempted over twenty years ago. Scientists know so much more about the brain now than they did back then. Not to mention the Intersect has advanced by leaps and bounds since then," Charles argued.

"What is Agent X?" Beckman asked directly, looking at Charles.

He turned in his chair to face Beckman, but kept Graham in the corner of his eye. "Agent X was a project in the late 1970s and early 1980s, ma'am. It used an early version of the Intersect, a proto-Intersect, to upload a new personality into an agent. It was supposed to let that agent go undercover, gather intel, and then get out. Unfortunately, something went wrong-something that's above my clearance level-and the Agent X project was abandoned. But it was used as a basis for the Intersect in 2002."

"Agent X was one of our most promising projects and one of our most crushing failures," Graham said. "We cannot risk you, Agent Carmichael. Not for something like this."

"Then what for, Director?" Charles asked, feeling his temper spike for a moment before managing to gather his control. "Fulcrum needs to be stopped. This is a way to do it, a way that they won't see coming. The safety of America is more important than any one agent. I will do whatever is necessary to make this operation a success."

His eyes ran over the gathered individuals before returning his gaze to Graham. "Gandhi said that you must be the change you wish to see in the world. And that's what I'm trying to do with this operation. I'm being the change. So even though it is a risk to myself, I'm willing to take it."

Charles kept his eyes locked on Graham. This was the moment when he couldn't blink, he couldn't flinch. He had to prove that he meant every word of what he just said. And when Graham heaved a sigh and sat back in his chair, Charles felt a rush of relief. Because he had done it.

"You make valid points, Agent Carmichael," Graham said. "Very well, you may begin exploring your suitability for the Intersect upload, as well as researching how a cover personality can be created. If you insist upon using your sister, we will need to run a background check on her. A thorough one."

If Graham thought he could be scared off by hinting that Charles would learn things about his sister that he didn't want to know, he had another think coming.

"Of course, Director." Charles turned to Beckman. "I would appreciate it if the NSA could draft a list of agents who would be suitable for this assignment."

Beckman nodded as she rose to her full height. "There's still a lot to be discussed, Agent Carmichael." She held her hand out to him, lowering her voice. "But congratulations on convincing Langston."

He stood and smiled a little, shaking the general's hand. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll be in touch."

With a curt nod, the petite general turned on her heel and walked out of the conference room, everyone else following her out. Except for Graham.

The silence in the room was only broken by Charles turning off his laptop and gathering his papers. He could feel Graham's presence, weighing heavily on him. Finally, he turned to look at the deputy director.

"You don't know just how much you're risking, Charles," Graham said.

It was all he could do not to snap out a peevish reply, something about dropping the cloak-and-dagger act. Instead, Charles made himself be cautious. At this point, he couldn't afford to piss off his boss. "Once we begin researching how to make this operation a success, and if we discover a major red flag, we'll adjust."

That answer seemed to satisfy Graham for the moment. "Very well, Agent Carmichael," he said, standing up. "Keep me posted."

"Yes, sir," Charles said, letting Graham leave the room. And once he was alone in the room, he sank down in a chair, buried his face in his hands, and let out a long breath.

He had done it. The operation, for now, was a go. After so much drama and doubt, he had pulled it off.

Running his hands through his hair, Charles made himself stand up and gather his things. He had to call Ellie and prepare her for the background check. He needed to look into the Agent X files he had and learn what he could from them. And now that Graham had given his support, he could begin talking to the Intersect scientists.

But through all his planning and thinking, in the back of his mind Charles couldn't help feeling a small niggle, like this operation had just taken an unexpected turn away from what he had hoped it would be.

XXX

Over the next month, Charles told himself that he could work on learning who he was on his own. After all, using his job as the way to discover his true personality was pretty backwards. Maybe he just needed to exert some energy to learn more about himself.

However, by the end of the four weeks, Charles had to admit that he sucked at having free time.

No, it wasn't that, not really. He had always enjoyed having downtime between missions, getting an opportunity to explore his surroundings, to learn more about different countries and cultures. But exploring himself . . . that was a different kind of undertaking.

He had really tried, though. He made himself spend evenings attending concerts and lectures and museums. On the weekends, he'd drive up to Baltimore to the Inner Harbor or visited a brewery. He went to movies, browsed in bookshops, and went to restaurants he'd always meant to try.

But nothing seemed to click. He got bored during the movies. His mind kept wandering to work while he walked through the Museum of Natural History. The books he bought remained unread once he got home and he fell asleep in three different concerts. And he quickly realized he really didn't like eating alone.

The only thing he really enjoyed was a museum exhibit he stumbled into, a retrospective featuring artwork from 1950s science-fiction magazines. It captured his attention like nothing else had: the colors, the drama. The limitless possibility of strange worlds filled with alien lifeforms, of gadgets and space ships and blaster guns. It made him feel like a kid.

And when he realized that, Charles felt flustered and left the exhibit.

At least work on the Intersect operation was going well. As he had thought, Ellie had easily passed the background check, allowing her to have direct access to the files on the Intersect and to communicate with the CIA scientists. In a week, she would be coming out to visit him-and to monitor his condition during the final tests before the Intersect would be uploaded into his brain.

Because it would seem that he was well-suited to take on the Intersect. Between Ellie and the scientists, he had become very familiar with all the different kinds of brain scans available to modern medicine. There had been CAT scans, PET scans, x-rays of his skull, intelligence and stress tests . . . he was thankful that he had a few weeks off from all the testing, now that it was time to begin creating the personality implant.

Charles slumped down on his couch, sipping from the beer in his hand (part of a case he had let himself be talked into buying during a brewery tour) and thinking over today's meeting. He had met with a few of the scientists, those that had been tasked with exploring how the Intersect would manage the cover personality. The basic message seemed to be that the information would be loaded into the Intersect and it would do the heavy lifting from there.

The full implication of that choice hadn't been clear to him at first. It took a phone call to Ellie for him to understand.

"Charles . . . with this method, the personality being used by the Intersect would be all that was present. Your memories, your thoughts-they'd be blocked." He could hear Ellie pause, as if she was searching for some way to explain this gently. "Remember how I liked my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? With a lot of peanut butter and barely any jelly? It'd be like that-your personality would be the jelly and the personality implant would be the peanut butter, so when you took a bite of the sandwich all you would taste is peanut butter."

For a long moment, he felt struck dumb. Downright speechless. "You-you mean, it would just be the fake personality?"

Ellie's voice was full of sympathy. "Yes. In fact, you probably wouldn't remember anything, you wouldn't know what happens, as long as you have the Intersect. At least, that's what I suspect. We-we're not really sure."

He knew that Ellie wanted him to open up to her. Tell her what he was thinking. But he couldn't do that. Not with everything going through his mind. So he had quickly ended the phone call, gotten a beer, and tried to think this through.

It wasn't something he had considered, not remembering. Not knowing what was happening. Although honestly . . . what had he thought about this? How did he think the personality overlay would work? Now that he was thinking it over, it seemed like he hadn't thought this through. And that wasn't like him. He always made sure to anticipate any surprises, to be prepared.

But somehow, he hadn't anticipated this. Hadn't anticipated losing out on what he wanted: a chance to be someone else for a while, to figure out just who he wanted to be. Ironically enough, he would be someone else-he just wouldn't be able to remember it.

Not to mention the thought of some other person being in his body, making decisions that he would have to live with . . . he felt his skin crawl at the thought. What if the personality decided to get a tattoo? Start smoking? Have rampant, unprotected sex?

Charles felt his breathing coming a bit too fast. He stood up and started pacing, taking swallows of his beer as he did so. He was freaking out a little, so he needed to calm down.

The whole point of the cover personality was to protect him. To keep him safe. So clearly, that was the first thing to remember when putting together the traits and values of this identity. Someone who wouldn't misuse his body. That shouldn't be too hard to do, right?

What would be hard is making the personality be well-rounded and believable. Neither too good to be true or a cliched stereotype. Someone realistic, someone who would be the last person that Fulcrum would suspect of having the Intersect, of having a connection with the world of espionage-the last person you would think could have such a huge secret.

As he paced, he had paused by his bed. It was only a double bed, which was fine for him-he never brought women here. Not just because of the bed, but because he had yet to meet a woman that he was willing to let into this place, the closest thing to a home that he had.

Although if things had gone differently with-

He shut down that thought before it could go any further with a shake of his head. That made his eyes fall on three small photos he kept tucked away on the small ledge that was just above the bed.

One of the photos was a somewhat formal, posed shot of him and Ellie, taken at her wedding. His big sister looked stunning in her wedding gown, the wide, happy smile on her face making her glow. Next to her, even his big smile looked dim.

The other two photos, though, were candids, their colors faded and the images slightly grainy. The first showed his family. Back when they were a whole family: father, mother, daughter, son. He could still remember that day. It was his first day of school, just a few weeks before his sixth birthday. His Transformers backpack was nearly bigger than he was and his smile was equal parts proud, excited and worried. Ellie, standing next to him, was a gangly nine-year-old with her hair in a thick braid. Standing behind them, their parents bore the expressions that Charles always associated with them: distant and sad for his mother, loving yet distracted for his father.

It was the second photo, though, that had really caught his attention. He knew exactly when it had been taken: two weeks before his mother had left. He could still remember hearing his mother call out, "Smile," as she stood with the camera.

Morgan had scrambled to his feet, smiling widely. "Sure thing, Mrs. B! C'mon, Chuck."

He had been slower to stand up, feeling awkward in his body. At nine he was already the tallest kid in his class. Combined with being a nerd, he always felt a little out of place. At least he had Morgan, though.

Smiling at his mom, he had slung his arm around Morgan's shoulders. "Okay, Mom. Just take the picture so I can go back to making the best elven warrior ever."

"My human wizard is so much better," Morgan muttered.

"Okay, boys," his mom said, never one to have a lot of patience with their role-playing games. "Cheese!"

In unison, the two of them yelled cheese, his mother took the picture and that moment was memorialized forever. Two boys, one of them skinny and nerdy who was mostly happy but already felt like he stood out for the wrong reasons. Over the years, the happiness faded away and the outsider feeling got stronger, so by the time he started at boarding school, Chuck Bartowski was ready for a change. To be different. To be one of the crowd. Fortunately, his school was full of geniuses so he hadn't needed to dumb himself down. But they were the successful, popular kind of geniuses. And that was what he had tried to become.

But what if . . . what if he went back?

Charles reached out and lifted up the photo of himself and Morgan, looking closely at his nine-year-old image. What if he didn't make some personality out of whole cloth-what if he just used his childhood personality? What if he just became Chuck Bartowski?

That . . . that could work. Between himself and Ellie, he would have no problems making sure the personality was realistic and detailed. And since this whole idea, of having the Intersect take care of the personality, was so untried, wouldn't using a personality that felt somewhat natural to him-or at least, it had in the past-be a good plan?

He had reached out to grab his phone and call Ellie when he hesitated. Was this a good idea? Was it smart to let that side of himself reemerge? He remembered how it had been, standing in the Sony store in Tokyo. How tempting it had felt, standing on the verge of giving in and trying the video games. Would someone so undisciplined, so distracted, be a good choice?

_That's crap and you know it. You're just scared._

Frowning, Charles put down the photo. Was he scared? And why?

This was ridiculous. He had to be practical about this. He had to be smart. And becoming Chuck Bartowski was smart and practical. There was no reason to be scared. Being scared was pointless. He had faced down terrorists, parachuted out of planes from twenty thousand feet, and gone through the whole of Rio during Carnival in drag. If he could do that, he could become his younger self again. At least he could trust himself with his body-smoking, drinking, and tattoos had never appealed to Chuck Bartowski.

Charles picked up his phone and hit the contact for Ellie. As soon as his sister picked up, he started speaking. "I have this idea for the implanted personality and I want to know what you think."

XXX

Time seemed to be speeding up as the final briefing approached. It was the make-or-break point, the last chance for Graham or Beckman to shut down the mission that Charles had nicknamed Operation Bartowski. If everything went well in today's briefing, they would shift from research and planning into implementation.

The final touches were being put on the Chuck Bartowski personality. The scientists were fine-tuning the Intersect upload process and adapting it for the included personality element. And a base for the team was being prepared in Los Angeles, in a location that would work with the cover job for Chuck Bartowski.

Everything was in motion, but Charles felt like he was standing still. Because the closer he got to actually becoming Chuck again, the more uncomfortable he felt. The more worried he got about whether this would actually work.

At least he had the comfort of knowing this op would only last a year. Ellie and the scientists, after many lengthy discussions, had recommended that they limit the amount of time the Intersect and the personality implant were in his head, to ensure his safety. Graham and Beckman had agreed-probably out of a desire to not lose his skills for a prolonged period. He hoped that was the case.

Stepping into the conference room reserved for today's briefing, Charles noticed the room was very full. About the only person involved with Operation Bartowski who wasn't here was Ellie. She would be flying out in the next day or so, once the operation was a go. Until then, the various Intersect scientists would have to be enough to answer any of the technical questions.

Taking a seat, Charles folded his arms on top of the table, trying to be ready for whatever might happen. Today he would be finding out what other agents would be on the team. He was rather curious about who would be involved-although he had given Graham a list of agents he would be willing to work with, he wasn't sure how much effort the deputy director had expended to go along with Charles's preferences.

And the fact that Sarah Walker had been on his list of agents was something he was trying not to think about. Because maybe he shouldn't have included her on the list. Because maybe if she was working with him again, even though it wouldn't really be him and he wouldn't really remember any of it . . .

Enough. It was over and done with. As much as he wished things could have been different with Sarah, having her work on Operation Bartowski would be fine. She was professional enough to not let this already difficult mission become a debacle, just because she had slept with him. But he doubted she would want to be part of the team. After all, would she want to give up a year of her life to be stuck in California, of all places? She was too damn good to settle like that.

The entrance of Graham and Beckman took his mind off such thoughts, thank God. Within a few moments, everyone was settled again and the briefing began.

During the technical analysis, Charles only half-listened, since he had heard all of this more than once by now. It didn't take long for almost everyone's eyes to be glazed over and Beckman halted the scientist who was babbling about the improvements made to the upload process.

"Do you have anything else of general interest to report, doctor?" Beckman inquired crisply. The scientist, who must have realized he was on thin ice, shook his head and stayed silent. "Good," Beckman said. "Now let's discuss who's been assigned to participate in this operation. I've selected Major John Casey to represent the NSA's interests."

Although Casey's reputation wasn't the best-he was an enforcer type and halfway to becoming a burn-out-he was widely regarded as one of the best sharpshooters around. Charles didn't object to having someone like that watching his back. So he simply nodded and looked to Graham.

It had been decided that there would be one NSA agent and one CIA agent protecting the erstwhile Chuck Bartowski. Their cover relationships had been left up in the air until the final choice of agents were made; Charles suspected that Major Casey would become one of Chuck's co-workers. But what of the CIA agent?

"I've asked Sarah Walker to be the CIA representative," Graham said, his eyes flicking to Charles's for a moment. "She's going to give me her answer tomorrow."

What?

He was tempted to stick his finger in his ear and mime cleaning his aural passages, because there was no way that Graham had said he had asked-wait. Of course Graham would ask Sarah Walker. Not because Charles had expressed a preference for her, but because she was Graham's enforcer. The kind of spy who got things done, no matter what was asked of her. That was her rep now-in the months since their mission together, Sarah Walker had made a name for herself as cold, hard and ruthless. Which was something, considering the circles they moved in.

But . . . did Sarah want to work with him? Charles immediately wondered just how much Graham had told her, if she now knew she was on the short list of people that Charles Carmichael was willing to work with for a second time. Did she understand about the Intersect? Did she know he wouldn't remember what had happened between them? Was it clear that he would be a different person?

The rest of the briefing passed in a blur for Charles as he considered this from every angle. A polite round of applause snapped him out of his daze and he looked around, realizing that the applause was for him. He put an appreciative look on his face and nodded his head towards the crowd. "Thank you," he said. "We-we've still got a lot of work to do. But thank you."

That seemed to be enough; the briefing ended and everyone started heading back to their offices. There were several people who wanted to talk to Charles, so even though he wanted to find someplace quiet where he could think some more, he did his best to focus on the questions being put to him.

Clearly, Sarah Walker still held a kind of thrall over him. He had to stop thinking about her: they were entering the most important phase of Operation Bartowski now, and if anything went wrong the whole mission would be in jeopardy. He had to push aside his thoughts about her if he wanted to get anything done.

And too much was riding on Operation Bartowski for him to act like a lovesick teenager. He had a job to do and he was going to do it.

XXX

Using his full height, Charles craned his neck, searching the crowds at Dulles International Airport for his sister. Ellie's flight had landed over twenty minutes ago; where was she?

Suddenly he spotted her and Charles felt a huge grin appear on his face. He hadn't expected to be so excited about Ellie's visit, to look forward to it so much. And now that she was here . . .

"Charles!" she squealed as she reached him, throwing her arms around him. "Oh, it's good to see you!"

As he hugged her back, he closed his eyes for a moment, savoring this moment. "It's good to see you, too, El."

She pulled back to look at him, smiling brightly. "We have so much to talk about. It's a good thing I'm here for a week."

He chuckled softly. "We will have work to do, you know."

Waving a hand dismissively, Ellie brushed aside his weak misdirection before taking his arm. "Of course, but there's going to be a lot of time for us to talk. And I have some things to say." She pinned him with that big-sister look, the one she had perfected by the time he was six-the look that could make him spill his guts every time.

"No, no, that's not gonna work on me," he said. "You think after all my training, I still can't withstand the Ellie Bartowski Big Sister Look?"

"Yup," Ellie said with a grin. "Let's go get my suitcase and we can get some dinner." She eyed him for a moment. "You look good. But you need a haircut."

"I know," Charles said, running his free hand through his hair and feeling the bit of extra length. "But I'm shifting into cover mode. And Chuck wouldn't have perfectly styled hair."

Ellie frowned. "You don't have to talk about Chuck like he's some completely different person. He's you."

Charles took a deep breath. Ellie wasn't a spy. She didn't understand the kind of compartmentalization you had to do, the way you split up your core self into bits and pieces so you could hide them away in case something went wrong on a mission. And she had never fully accepted how he had changed at boarding school. For all her complaining about his nerdy habits when they were younger, Ellie had never seemed happy about how he had let go of all his former interests.

His sister was a definite enigma. Not unlike the woman who was always on his mind.

"I hope your flight was okay, Ellie. How's Devon?"

"I see what you're doing here. Don't think we're not going to talk about this, Charles," Ellie said, her voice firm. "Because you've spent years trying to hide from the truth about yourself and it's time you stopped."

He stopped and stared at her, ignoring the way the other travelers grumbled as they moved past them. "Hiding?"

"Yes, hiding," Ellie said. "Going to that school might have been good for you academically, but it took my sweet, funny, nerdy little brother and turned him into some Stepford clone. Some guy with hardly any personality, a man who only cares about his work. That's not what I wanted for you, Chu-Charles."

"I-I'm not-" He tried to speak, but his tongue felt like it had swelled in his mouth, his throat was dry, and his heart was hammering in his chest. Was Ellie right? Was that why he had felt so lost lately? He was finally aware of the mistake he had made?

"Yes, you are," Ellie said, sounding more gentle now. She rubbed his arm soothingly. "Why else would you take the elaborate, really unnecessary step of forcing yourself to be Chuck, but in a way that you won't remember? If you're as good as everyone says-believe me, your boss made a point of telling me that during our phone calls-you could be Chuck Bartowski again like that." Ellie snapped her fingers for emphasis. "But instead, you're using the-"

Charles still had enough of his wits to give Ellie a look, to remind her not to use the word Intersect in public. Ellie nodded and continued. "Instead, you're using you-know-what to make it happen." She gave him a small, comforting smile. "If that's not hiding, I don't know what is."

There were a million different ways to deny what Ellie was saying. To point out the needs of the mission like protecting his safety and ensuring that Fulcrum was eliminated. To discuss how the Intersect was full of potential and needed an opportunity to prove it. He could come up with so much logic and reason to explain how she was wrong.

But he couldn't, because what she was saying was the truth.

He was trying to hide, trying to escape all the messy, complicated feelings and questions that kept swirling in his brain. The ones that had been there for months, or maybe even longer, but had only come to the forefront recently. First because of his dissatisfaction with his job and then the bombshell that was Sarah Walker.

Why? This wasn't like him. Why was he trying so hard to hide? Charles didn't know. And he wasn't sure if he'd get the chance to figure that out before the Intersect upload would happen. But . . . but he still had a few weeks. Ellie was here and she could help him-wanted to help him. Maybe he could at least get started on the problem, reach a point where he could pick up once Operation Bartowski was over.

A tug on his arm made him look down at Ellie. "Okay in there, Charles?" she asked, looking a bit worried.

Blowing out a breath, he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, just have a lot to think about." He managed a small smile at her. "You Rubik's Cube-d me again, sis."

Ellie laughed, taking his arm again. "It's not that impressive, you know. I'm three years older than you, I was bound to be smarter than you back then."

They started walking towards baggage claim, falling into an easy conversation about their childhoods. But as they walked and talked, Charles kept mulling over the wisdom of his big sister.

End, Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

**A Flip of the Coin 4/4**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T for language, sex and violence

**Summary**: What made Charles Carmichael agree to become Chuck Bartowski? Well, to start, it wasn't as much of a change as you'd think. A companion to the early chapters of **Two Sides of the Same Coin** from Carmichael's perspective.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note**: And thus the conclusion of Charles Carmichael's journey to the Intersect! I hope you enjoyed this companion piece and I appreciate the readers who have followed this story. Thanks for reading. :-)

XXX

Glancing around him, Charles made sure that Ellie was still in the bathroom and the shower was still running before he dialed the number for Graham's office. Once Graham's assistant answered, he asked to be connected with the deputy director. He tapped his foot as he waited, looking out the window of his condo.

"Agent Carmichael?"

"Yes, Director Graham," Charles said, looking over his shoulder again. "Thank you for taking my call. I was wondering if you had gotten any word from Agent Walker?"

Charles could practically hear Graham roll his eyes through the phone. Not that he would actually roll his eyes under any condition, but Charles could sense the sentiment in Graham's answer. "No, Agent Carmichael. I won't be meeting with Walker until later today."

"Ah. Of course. But you will let me know her answer as soon as you do, yes? If she's not interested, we'll need to find someone else."

"I am well aware of that fact," Graham said testily. "If Agent Walker turns down this opportunity, I will immediately reach out to another agent."

He wasn't just on thin ice now-he was in the middle of a freezing lake, drowning in the icy water. "Of course, yes. I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Thank you, Director."

_My God, you're already turning back into Chuck. Get yourself together!_

Not waiting for any response from Graham, Charles hung up the phone and turned around, nearly letting out a small squeak of surprise at the sight of Ellie in a bathrobe, rubbing a towel over her hair. Now he wished he had suggested Ellie stay in a local hotel instead of with him.

"Who were you talking to?" she asked, taking a seat on his couch.

Taking a deep breath, Charles tried to sound nonplussed. "Graham. I was asking about the prospective CIA rep to the team. We're waiting to find out if she wants to join the team."

"She, huh?" Ellie raised her eyebrows as she looked up at him.

"There are female spies," Charles said, walking over to the kitchen. "You want some coffee?"

"Yes. And I know there's female spies. I guess I'm just surprised that you're so interested in one," Ellie said.

Charles shrugged. "I'm putting my life into the hands of these agents. I want to know I can depend on them." He walked over, handing Ellie a mug of coffee with two sugars, before sitting down next to her and sipping from his own mug.

There was no reason for Ellie to know just how much he hoped Sarah might say yes, let alone what had happened between them. It wouldn't matter, because he wasn't going to be the same man once the Intersect was uploaded-and he wasn't about to talk to his sister about his sex life.

"Hmm. That's true. I suppose that means I should care about these people, since they're going to be keeping my little brother safe." Ellie looked at him over the rim of her mug. "Anything I should know? I mean, have you worked with these people before?"

"I only know Casey by reputation. A bit gruff, but he can practically shoot around corners. Agent Walker . . . yes, I've worked with her. She's good." Charles took a large swallow of his coffee, hoping that Ellie wouldn't press the point but fairly confident that she would.

To his surprise, Ellie picked up on his thoughts and changed the subject. "Are you sure you want to do the personality implant? It's not too late to change your mind, you know."

"I can't," Charles said, looking over at her. "Graham won't let the op go ahead unless I get the cover personality."

"You could convince him," Ellie said, her eyes narrowed. "If you're as good as you're supposed to be."

He blew out a breath. "El, it took two months of pestering and begging for me to get this far. I'm not going to risk the mission for my own comfort."

Ellie sighed. "Of course you wouldn't. And I understand how important this is, even if you haven't really told me anything. I just . . . this is already really risky, Charles."

"Hey," he said, moving closer to her and resting his hand on her shoulder. "That's why I came to you in the first place. I wanted to minimize the risk. And you're going to be there for me throughout the whole year. I might have the best spies around to protect me, but I know you'll watch my back better than anyone."

Hopefully, Ellie could hear the sincerity in his voice. Could understand that he meant every word of what he said. This whole operation couldn't work without Ellie. He needed her to know that. Because even though they weren't as close as they used to be, even though he had let her down and disappointed her . . . he knew she loved him.

She held his gaze for a long moment, then gave him a tremulous smile. "You bet I can. And I don't even have a gun."

"All you need is your glare and a frying pan," Charles said, smiling back at her.

"You're lucky I love you so much," Ellie said, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him a tight hug.

Charles closed his eyes as he hugged her back. "I know."

Her shoulders shook for a moment, but when she pulled back she was still smiling. "Okay. We should probably stop dawdling and get to work. I have a lot to talk to those scientists about, so your brain doesn't explode when the Intersect goes into it."

"An exploding brain could be in my future?" Charles asked, grinning a little. Trying to keep this from getting scary.

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Not with me here, duh."

Laughing, Charles stood up. "Of course. Lemme shower and we can get over to Langley."

With a nod, Ellie sipped her coffee and started going through her suitcase for clothes. Charles headed to the bathroom, his mind shifting into work mode. Yet still, he wondered just what decision Sarah might make about joining Operation Bartowski.

XXX

The next week kept Charles busy. Very, very busy. He shouldn't have had time to worry about Sarah Walker or be nervous about Operation Bartowski. But he did and he was.

At least his nerves about the mission were justified. Ellie had worked so hard, spending hours with the various scientists, yet he knew she still had concerns about the Intersect. But for some reason, she had held back on saying anything. Perhaps because she didn't want him to worry. At any other time, Charles would resent her attempts at coddling him. But right now . . . he knew he was barely holding things together.

And now that Ellie had left, going back to Los Angeles for a week to make sure everything was ready before the Intersect upload happened . . . it was getting harder to not freak out.

This wasn't like him. Chuck Bartowski freaked out and lost his cool, but not Charles Carmichael. It made him wonder if maybe the knowledge that he would soon be just Chuck was making him lose his grip on himself. He wished he could just cut himself some slack, that he could accept that the imminent upload of the Intersect was shaking him up. But he couldn't. He didn't want to let on about all the doubts he had. Not even to Ellie.

That explained why he found himself calling his childhood best friend late on a Tuesday night, less than a week before the Intersect upload.

"Go for Morgan." Morgan sounded slightly distracted and far-away through the speakerphone; he was probably playing video games, based on the music and sound effects Charles was hearing.

Taking a deep breath, Charles tried to act natural. "Hi, Morgan. It's . . . it's Chuck."

There was a yelp, a clatter, and a sudden silence. Then came a beep as Morgan took him off speakerphone, Charles guessed. "Chuck?!"

"It's been a long time," he said sheepishly. "Which is all my fault."

"Hey, no, buddy, it's okay! I know how super-busy that job of yours keeps you. After all, tax season is coming up!"

Morgan's voice was so cheerful, so full of understanding, that Charles once again felt the guilt at lying to him. The only person who knew that Charles worked for the CIA was his sister. When he had gotten recruited, he had told Morgan he was going to work for an accounting firm, the one used by Apple and Microsoft and Roark and other tech giants.

"Yeah, right," Charles said, holding on to the phone tightly. "How are you doing, Morgan?"

"Dude, I am so good. My Call of Duty team has been kicking ass. Seriously, we are one sniper away from total domination. Too bad you're so busy-you always had great instincts for when to go for the old kill shot," Morgan said, practically bubbling over with pride and enthusiasm.

That was how Charles remembered Morgan: full of life. Even though his life wouldn't look like much to most people, Morgan enjoyed every moment. When was the last time he had felt like that? Charles couldn't remember.

"I was okay," Charles said. "But there were plenty of guys who were better than me."

Morgan snorted. "Yeah, right. Chuck Bartowski was a legend in the making."

"Are you still at the Buy More?" Charles asked, feeling uncomfortable with Morgan's praise and wanting to change the subject.

"The green still owns my soul," Morgan said philosophically. "Remember Harry Tang? He's the assistant manager now. If you thought he was bad when he was just a green shirt, imagine him now in a special 'assistant manager' polo, with embroidery and epaulettes!"

To his surprise, Charles could imagine just how bad that was. He let out a small shudder. "That's the worst."

"Yup," Morgan said. "But we're keeping him in his place. We stole his universal remote the other day. None of us know the code to reprogram it, but at least he can't change the TVs without having to do it one at a time."

"I bet he's annoyed about that," Charles said, chuckling a little.

"Putting it mildly, Chuck." Morgan's voice was full of barely restrained glee. "So, hey, what's up?"

"'What's up?'" Charles repeated, settling himself down on the sofa.

Morgan let out a soft burp. "Yeah, what's up? You musta had a reason to call."

"No reason. Just wanted to catch up. 'Cause email's good and all, but I . . . I miss you." There was a catch in his voice. Because it wasn't until he had heard Morgan's voice, until he actually talked to his old friend, that he realized it was true. He did miss Morgan.

"Awwww, Chuck!" Morgan sounded truly touched. "I miss you so much. You should come visit! Those accountants are slave-drivers, never letting you have time off or anything."

"Actually, I'm moving back."

The words were out of Charles's mouth before he even realized he had thought them. What the hell was he doing? Because he hadn't prepared an explanation for Morgan, one that would hide the truth from him. This definitely wasn't the time to reveal his real career to his former best friend. Besides, they didn't have all the details of his cover story worked out yet, due to arguments between the CIA and NSA about how much access they should have to Chuck Bartowski-Charles didn't know what job they were going to come up with for Chuck.

"What?! That is so totally awesome! You're moving back here? Really? Does Ellie know yet? Where are you gonna live? Hey, maybe we should get an apartment together! It's time I moved out of Mom's place. Let me tell you, bringing ladies home is totally out with my current living conditions. Not-not that I've had much luck lately. But with Chuck Bartowski as my wingman, I'm bound to do better now! I can't believe this! What-"

"MORGAN!" Charles shouted into the phone, his previous attempts to interrupt his old friend not being successful.

"Yeah, Chuck?" Morgan sounded taken aback. "What is it?"

"I . . ." Thinking fast, Charles latched onto the first idea he came up with, one that would explain his return and keep Morgan from asking too many questions. "If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone. And we can never talk about it after this call. Can you do that?"

There was a long pause, and Charles wondered if he had messed up. But then Morgan spoke.

"Are you okay, Chuck? Of course I'll do whatever you say, if you're in trouble or anything." Morgan paused again. "And you can count on me, buddy. Always."

The unquestioning, immediate support from Morgan made Charles feel a wave of relief. He hadn't realized how much he needed it from someone who didn't know everything. It was one thing for Ellie to support him, since she had all the facts. But Morgan knew he was being kept in the dark but still trusted him.

Charles lowered his voice. "I . . . this is gonna sound crazy, but before I joined the firm I worked at, I was recruited by the IRS to go in there undercover and find evidence of illegal activity. That's why I could never take time off or anything."

"Wow," Morgan said, sounding breathless. "I didn't know accounting was so exciting."

"Not really," Charles said, injecting some humor into his voice. "But I've done my job and now I need to hide for the next year or so, until the trial is ready to go. So I'm coming back to California."

"So you're like in Witness Protection or something? That is so cool!"

"Yeah, it's like Witness Protection," Charles said. "But it's really top-secret so you can't tell anyone, not your mom, not anyone, and we can't talk about it."

"No, no, I get it!" Morgan said. "My lips are sealed, bro. It's gonna be so awesome having you back! Hanging out together, playing video games . . ."

As Morgan spoke, Charles began to get another idea. "Hey, Morgan?"

"Yeah, Chuck?" Morgan said, stopping his enumeration of all the things they could do together once Charles was back in California.

"Do you think the Buy More is hiring?" Charles asked, his mind moving at a million miles an hour as his cover story began to fall into place.

XXX

It took a lot of convincing to make the powers-that-be agree with Charles's decision about his cover story, but eventually they agreed that it made sense. So Chuck Bartowski would be the Nerd Herd supervisor at the Burbank Buy More; Major Casey would be implanted as one of the Buy More's green-shirted sales staff; and Agent Walker would be working in a frozen yogurt shop in the same strip mall.

When Charles learned that Sarah Walker had agreed to join Operation Bartowski, it was all he could do to not overreact. Because it was very tempting to find her and talk to her, to try and explain what had happened in the Dominican so there wouldn't be any questions between them. After all, he was going to be depending on her, and if she was pissed off at him . . .

But no. That didn't seem like Sar-like Walker. She was a professional. She understood the job. Besides, what did it matter? He was going to spend the next year as Chuck Bartowski, who would know nothing about Charles Carmichael. And with the Intersect upload happening in only a few days, there just wasn't time.

At least, that was what he told himself. Many, many times. Because it sucked to realize that he was going to spend a whole year with Sarah Walker and he wouldn't remember any of it.

Although maybe it was for the best. Because this way, he couldn't act like a lovesick idiot around her. All stolen glances and hidden sighs. There would be none of that, no chances to screw up. He had already done enough of that.

It had all worked out, but he knew he had gotten lucky with Morgan. Only his ability to think quickly had allowed him to come up with an explanation for his return to California. If he hadn't gotten that right, things would be even more complicated, more difficult.

From here on out, he had to be very careful about the distinction between his two personalities. There was still plenty of prep work to be done, too. Chuck Bartowski wouldn't have Charles Carmichael's trim body and artfully messy hair-try slightly flabby muscles and completely untamed locks. And since Chuck had always been clean-shaven, because he never thought he could pull off the cool stubble look, Charles began shaving every day.

The physical look was just part of it, though. He spent a whole day reading up on the video game systems that had come out since he was in high school. Then he borrowed a system and did his best to regain some muscle memory. Ellie said there was no way of knowing if it would help, but it couldn't hurt, she said. "And at least it'll give you something to take your mind off things."

Charles had huffed out a laugh at her statement. Because he didn't think it was possible to be distracted from all his thoughts about the Intersect, about the implanted personality, and about Sarah Walker.

But he was proven wrong. Very wrong. Because once he got a controller in his hand, it all came back to him. The exact pressure you needed to apply to the buttons, the way your hands cramped a little cradling the controller, that he remembered. But some things were new: how fast you had to pull on the triggers, the new combos to launch attack moves . . . It surprised him. Because it wasn't as hard as he thought it might be. And it was very, very easy to fall down the rabbit hole. He started playing in the morning and the next thing he knew, he realized the sun had gone down.

It was like he was already Chuck Bartowski.

Frowning, Charles flopped back on the couch and rubbed his hands over his face. His mind felt so disordered. Normally he had no problems organizing his thoughts, making plans, juggling a dozen different ideas. Lately, though, he just felt perpetually confused. Even a bit lost. Like he had felt when he first started boarding school. When he wished with all his heart that he could just call Ellie and talk to her.

He found himself playing with his phone, pulling up the contacts screen and looking at the picture of Ellie that went with her contact. Ellie was going to be here in two days for the Intersect upload-there was no reason to call her. She had her own life, she must be so busy getting ready to come back here to D.C. yet again . . .

Almost on instinct, his thumb pressed Ellie's picture and set the phone to dialing. He knew that intellectually, he didn't need to talk to Ellie. But deep down inside himself, in the parts that he was slowly beginning to realize weren't gone after all, he really, really wanted to talk to his sister.

And when he heard Ellie's warm voice, he knew he made the right choice.

"Hi, Charles."

"Hey, Ellie," he said, hearing a sheepish note in his voice. "I hope I'm not bothering you."

"What? Of course you're not bothering me," Ellie said immediately.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to keep his voice light. "Good. I'm glad. I know you must be juggling a million different things . . ." In the background, he could hear the clinking of glasses and the sound of conversation. Before Ellie could say anything, Charles said, "Am I interrupting date night?"

Ellie laughed softly. "Kinda? But Devon understands. He's really excited that you're going to be living with us."

"Seriously?" Charles asked, raising an eyebrow. "Your husband is excited to have your brother living with you guys?"

"That's Devon," Ellie said affectionately. He could almost imagine the warm, loving smile she was directing at her husband.

"Well, I owe you guys for this," Charles said. "But I shouldn't keep you on the phone-"

There was a rustle and then Devon Woodcomb's voice boomed through the phone. "Charles! It's gonna be awesome having you staying with us. Ellie misses you a lot, bro."

For someone who had only met him once, Devon certainly acted like Charles was one of his best, oldest friends. It was disarming to the point of provoking Charles's paranoia, but at the same time, he found himself a little bit charmed. He could only imagine how Devon had swept Ellie off her feet.

"Thanks, Devon," Charles said. "I know it's an inconvenience, so I really appreciate it."

"No inconvenience at all!" Devon said cheerfully. "So stop worrying about it and just enjoy talking to Ellie. I've gotta get back to the hospital, so I'll just leave you to Ellie."

After a few moments of muffled conversation, Ellie returned to the phone. "Hey. You just caught us when we were wrapping up-Devon got a call so he's heading in to work. So you don't have to feel like you're interrupting or anything. I'm glad you called, actually."

"You are?" Charles asked, relaxing a little.

"Yep. Because I wanted to know how you're doing. Only two days left."

Charles looked down. He hadn't really needed the reminder. He knew, almost to the hour, how much time was left before the Intersect upload, before he would be gone. With everything he had been doing, trying to keep his mind off that ticking countdown-thinking about Sarah and wasting a whole day playing video games and hours of deliberation before buying new clothes for Chuck-had been a near-constant goal in the last week. That was why he felt so scatter-brained: he was trying so hard to not think about what he was trying not to think about. But perhaps . . . perhaps that was why he had called Ellie. To talk this over.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Only two days."

"You must be feeling a little worried," Ellie said. "Wondering what's going to happen."

"Yeah," he repeated. Ellie let out a small huff and he knew, without even seeing her face, that she must have an annoyed expression on her face, an expression that reflected her worry and her sadness at his lack of disclosure. And that wasn't how he wanted this to go. So Charles took a deep breath as he prepared to do something he hadn't done in years: bare his soul.

"I-I'm scared, Ellie. Not enough to pull out," he said, wanting her to know that wasn't an option. "But not knowing what's going to happen, even if the upload is a success . . ."

Ellie sighed heavily. "I really wish we had more data on the previous agents. I can't believe how slipshod their records are. They should have more doctors involved and fewer computer scientists."

"You noticed that, too, huh?" Charles asked, sinking down against the couch cushions. "I thought that was pretty strange. But I guess the brain is a big computer, after all."

"That's just the thing-it's not. Not the way you're thinking of it," Ellie said. "There's so many systems that we still don't understand, aspects of brain development that seem redundant. I mean, when you're a child and you're learning, your brain is incredibly active and is building all these neural connections that then get pruned. The ultimate 'use it or lose it'. With me so far?"

Charles smiled and nodded, enjoying listening to his sister explain something to him. It took him back to when they were kids. "With you so far."

"Okay. So your brain does this when you're a baby and small child. But then, it does it again when you're a teenager. Why? And more importantly, how? How does your brain know that when you're a teenager, you need to learn more things, learn what will prepare you for being an adult, so it creates more pathways to help you prepare for that."

"Evolution?" Charles asked. "I mean, we had thousands of centuries for our brains to grow and change into what they are now."

"Maybe. I just wonder," Ellie said, sounding thoughtful. But then she laughed softly. "And nice job of getting me distracted from you being scared."

Shifting a little, Charles felt his sheepishness come through in his voice. "Sorry. But it wasn't just my fault."

"I know, I know," Ellie said. "But let's get back to you instead of brain development. Are you more scared of something going wrong and being a vegetable, or nothing going wrong and not remembering what happens?"

That really was the question, wasn't it? The one he had been ducking for weeks. Just what was he scared of: losing himself or losing his memories? Was he such a control freak that it was better to have the Intersect destroy his mind instead of having a year he wouldn't remember?

"Is it bad that I don't know?" he asked, rubbing his hand against his denim-clad knee.

"No. Not at all," his sister said gently. "Either option is scary, just in different ways."

He sat up, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, keeping the phone pressed against his ear. "Maybe I'm being too optimistic, but I think this is going to work. I don't think the Intersect is going to mess up my head. So . . . so I guess I keep thinking what it's going to be like when the year is over. When I have to live with what happened, when I didn't have any control over it."

"I understand," Ellie said. "It's hard to say for sure, but I do think you're right. I don't think the Intersect is going to damage your brain. If I had any real doubt, I wouldn't let you do this, CIA agent and the safety of the country and all that stuff being the case."

For a moment he felt his spirits lift at Ellie's mama bear tendencies before he grew serious again. "I don't want to hurt anyone. You or Morgan or Devon, or people I don't even know yet. I don't want to make promises that I have to break or choose a course that I can't follow through on."

"Do you really think that will happen, though? I mean, you're a good guy, Charles. You always have been. I think that if anything happens, anything like you're describing, you'll be able to make amends later on." Ellie paused and Charles got the sense that she had something else to say. "Does this have anything to do with Agent Walker?"

Oh, crap. What-why-how? How had Ellie put the pieces together, with barely knowing anything?

"Why would you ask that?" he said, stalling as his mind tried to stop thinking _oh crap oh crap oh crap_.

"I had lunch with her a few days ago."

Even though Ellie was trying to sound calm and even-tempered, he could hear a little note of glee in her voice. She had realized that she had found something that she could tease him about, and Eleanor Faye Bartowski Woodcomb had never passed up the opportunity to tease her little brother.

Running a hand through his messy hair, Charles attempted to keep this from getting too embarrassing. "What did you think of her? Did she pass the big sister test?"

And why the hell did he say it like that? As if he wanted to know if his sister liked a woman that he liked?

"Let's see: beautiful, smart, clearly capable of protecting you, seems to like you . . . yeah, I'd say she passed," Ellie said with a chuckle. "And I liked her, too."

She liked him? How did Ellie get that impression? Was it something Sarah had said, or just a vibe that Ellie got from the other woman? He could practically feel the questions trying to escape his lips, so Charles cleared his throat and tried to act natural. "Good. I'm hoping that she'll work well with Major Casey and that-that things will go all right with the team."

"Uh-huh." He could tell Ellie was fighting back full-on laughter, so Charles rushed ahead before she could make this situation even more embarrassing.

"I should let you go and I definitely need to get some sleep."

"All right, Charles," Ellie said. "But if you need to talk more, you call me, you understand? Any time, day or night."

He took a deep breath. Through these last four months, Ellie had done so much for him. Not just helping him make Operation Bartowski a reality, but in showing him how much he had missed out on by not having her in his life more. He knew now that after this year, he wanted to spend more time with Ellie. Wanted to get to know Devon better, wanted to be there if and when Ellie had kids. He wanted to be there for her, like she had for him. Like she had always been.

"Ellie, I couldn't have gotten through this without you," Charles said quietly.

"No."

Charles blinked at Ellie's response. "No?"

"No goodbyes. At least not yet-not over the phone. When I see you before the upload, then you can tell me goodbye, if you feel like you need to. Because then I can hug you so hard and make you fight. Because it might have been a long time since you were Chuck Bartowski, but you, Charles Carmichael, you'll need to fight like a Bartowski to make this work."

Her words were like a punch in the gut. There was such utter conviction in her voice-she had complete belief that this wasn't just about the Chuck personality. She thought that he played a part in this, too. And it was something he hadn't considered, something he hadn't expected her to feel. Because it wasn't very scientific, was it? But it was so Ellie and so supportive that he felt like he just might lose it.

"O-okay," he said, his voice cracking a little. "I . . . I gotta go, Ellie."

"Okay. I love you, Charles," she said softly.

Hearing Ellie say that made his tenuous grip on his emotions fray even more. "I love you, too," he blurted out. "Bye, Ellie."

Hanging up and dropping the phone on the couch beside him, Charles buried his face in his hands and breathed deeply. He had to get himself under control. There was barely two days until the Intersect upload would occur and he still had plenty of work to accomplish. Work that needed him to be focused and logical.

He only had a few more days as Charles Carmichael. It was time he started acting like himself. Not like Chuck Bartowski. Yet even with that talking-to, it still took Charles an hour before he was ready to get to work.

XXX

As the driver steered the car through the suburban sprawl of Northern Virginia, Charles Carmichael sat in the backseat, watching the scenery, such as it was. He didn't want to appear nervous or fidgety, so he clasped his hands tightly in his lap and kept his eyes on the window.

Once he arrived at the CIA warehouse where the Intersect upload would take place, he would be in the spotlight. There would be dozens of high-ranking CIA and NSA individuals present, observing the process and waiting to see what would happen. So this car ride was when he should be clearing his mind, reaching a Zen-like state that showed his readiness to take this risk.

And he was doing that. But it was proving to be a lot harder than he expected.

The driver muttered softly as the car rolled to a stop, surrounded by cars on all sides. "Sorry, sir-looks like the morning traffic is worse than normal," he said, meeting Charles's eyes in the rear view mirror.

"It's fine," Charles said after a moment, realizing that the driver was expecting some response. "It's D.C., what can you do?"

The other man let out a soft huff of laughter and nodded, then silence fell over the car again. Charles didn't mind the silence or the delay; it gave him more time to be himself. More time to consider his future.

There were so many possible outcomes for today's Intersect upload. Charles was choosing to not consider what would happen if the upload failed. If his brain was damaged by the Intersect. Because if that did happen . . . well, his fate would be out of his hands. His will and advance health care mandate were very clear about what he wanted to happen if he was mentally incapacitated, and he knew that Ellie would carry out his wishes, even if she didn't want to do it.

And deep down, he wondered how much it would matter if that happened. Of course he knew he would be missed by Ellie and Devon and by Morgan. And the CIA would regret losing him and his skills. But . . . but that was it. That didn't seem like much of a life, when only three people would truly miss you. At least, it wasn't the kind of life he thought he would have. When he was a kid, he thought he would grow up to have lots of friends and a successful business and a family of his own. He would get married and have children and grandchildren, he would start a computer company and make a fortune and leave the money and the company to his family to run, so he could retire and gad about with his wife. He would get to end his life with the woman who had been with him for decades, the woman he would still love as much as the day he met her.

Charles couldn't help a small sigh. It was romantic and melodramatic and over-the-top, but that was what he had imagined. Even as a nerdy, gangly kid, he had been full of optimism and hope for his future. But his actual life as an adult was the exact opposite of those childhood dreams. Did that mean he had put aside those dreams, that he thought they were foolish and unrealistic? Or had he just chosen to ignore his dreams because they didn't fit with what "normal" people wanted? Because in his experience, most people seemed to be willing to settle for contentment, for comfort. They didn't try for the fairy tale, the Hollywood ending. They were happy with normal instead of extraordinary.

While he certainly hadn't followed that mindset in his professional career, Charles couldn't deny that his personal life was stunted. It had been since he had chosen as a teenager to be more like his fellow students instead of being himself. And now those chickens were coming home to roost, it seemed.

So what was he going to do? In a few hours, he would be gone and it would be a year before he could do anything about this, if he was lucky. And even if everything went according to plan and the Intersect worked and he spent the next year as Chuck Bartowski, what reason would Charles Carmichael have to change when he came back?

_Because you're so lost, you're burying yourself for a year._

As the thought sunk in, Charles swallowed. There was no way of knowing how things would be when he came back. He should take steps to make sure he didn't forget this epiphany. Because he couldn't keep doing this. Couldn't keep living half a life, couldn't keep denying what he really wanted.

He wanted more than being a spy. He wanted to be a whole person-the person he was supposed to be. Whoever that was. But it was definitely not just Charles Carmichael.

But how could he figure that out? And how was he going to make sure he followed through on this pledge? For all he knew, his memory might be affected more than they anticipated. He might forget all about this. There had to be a way-

Suddenly he remembered. His cell phone. It would allow him to send email. The interface was clunky and slow, yes, but it was possible. And given that the traffic was still at a standstill, it looked like he would have the time.

Fumbling in the pocket of his suit jacket, Charles pulled out his phone and navigated through the menus to the rudimentary email program. He paused, staring down at the blinking cursor on the small screen, then he began to laboriously type out a message to himself.

_Dear Charles:_

_If you're reading this, the Intersect is out of your head and you're back to your old self. Old, but not better. That's still to come. Being better. _

_And you need to be better. Because then you might be happy._

XXX

As he had gotten used to the small keys on the phone, Charles had picked up speed. But it wasn't enough. Glancing up once again, he saw that they were nearly at the warehouse. He had to hurry-and to stop worrying about correct punctuation and correcting his typos.

In a rush, he finished his letter. He took a moment to read over the last paragraph.

_Its going to be scary and hard. It might not work out. But itll be worth it if you could be happy. At least youve tried. Being a spy isnt all youre good at. Be a better brother and friend. Learn to be a good boyfriend. Make new friends, play video games, find something and someone to love. Find out who youre supposed to be. _

It was good. It seemed very inspirational, very call-to-arms. But there was something missing. In all the honest admissions about the mistakes he had committed, the choices he had made, there was one thing he hadn't revealed. One person he hadn't mentioned. And if he couldn't be fully and completely honest with himself now, then he was missing the point.

_Find Sarah Walker. You could have something with her maybe, even with everything thats happened. Because you cant stop thinking about her and thats gotta mean something._

There wasn't time to give himself examples or reasons. He had to hope that would be enough. Because they were at the warehouse and it was time to go.

Jabbing his thumb against the button that would send the email to his multiple accounts, Charles took a deep breath before sliding his phone into his jacket pocket. It was done. He had done all he could and now he had to hope it would all work out.

When the car came to a stop, Charles stepped out and walked towards the warehouse. A former aircraft hangar, it was large and echoing, with a smaller two-story room in the center of the space. That was where the Intersect upload would happen.

The buzz of conversation quieted as people caught sight of him. To his relief, Ellie hurried over to him and gave him a small smile. "Hey."

"Hey," he said, taking a step towards her and pulling her into a hug.

She rubbed his shoulders as she returned his embrace. "Okay there? I didn't expect you to hug me in front of your boss and several other very powerful people."

That was something he hadn't really considered. But . . . what did it matter? He shrugged his shoulders. "Just felt like hugging my sister. Like you said on the phone."

As he pulled back, he could feel the weight of Ellie's gaze on his face. Her eyes were narrowed as she took him in. "But you don't seem to be saying goodbye," she said quietly.

Charles shook his head. "No. Because someone told me I have to fight, and saying goodbye doesn't really seem like fighting."

Ellie's worried expression faded, replaced with a small smile. "Nice to see I'm not the only smart Bartowski."

He returned her smile. "Nope."

"Let's get ready, then," Ellie said, taking his arm and leading him into the prep area.

The next few hours were a whirl of final tests, last-minute checks, and all the other preparations for the Intersect upload. But finally, it ended with him in a somewhat-too-short hospital gown, standing in the middle of a large, white room that contained an old Macintosh computer and a scanner pad.

It was simple: he would place his hand on the scanner, which would begin the Intersect upload. The Chuck Bartowski personality was encoded in the Intersect already, ready and waiting to take over his actual identity.

It was all so simple and easy. But now that it was time to go, Charles found himself hesitating slightly. Having last-minute jitters, which was the last thing he wanted. Not in front of his bosses, not with Ellie worrying about him.

"Agent Carmichael? Are you ready?"

Director Graham's voice came in through the room's public address system. Looking up towards the observation window, Charles couldn't make out the director through the mirrored glass, but he knew his boss was there.

There was a slight hiss of feedback, then Ellie's voice came through. "Charles? Are you okay?"

Swallowing, he nodded and looked down at the computer. He rubbed his hands against the gown. This was it. It was time to go.

It was time to jump into the unknown. Whatever might happen to him during the next year, he knew that once he came back-because he was going to come back-he would create a new life for himself. One with purpose and hope and love.

He would be a whole man-not just a spy.

Looking up at the observation window, he managed a small smile. He moved into position and held his hand over the scanner.

"I'm ready."

End.


End file.
